


This is Never Happening Again

by hpleems



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Training, Christmas, Drarry, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hate Sex, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Pining, Post-Hogwarts, Secret Relationship, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-09-05 10:20:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 32,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16808731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpleems/pseuds/hpleems
Summary: “Potter,” Malfoy said, shaking his head. “Do I look like I care about your holiday plans? Trust me: this is *never* happening again.”Harry and Malfoy don't get along any better than they used to, but Harry can't get enough of their secret hookups, and he can't seem to figure out anything else in his life, either.  He's looking forward to Christmas break so he can clear his head...but fate has other plans.





	1. Chapter 1

“Potter.  _ Potter.  _ Wake up.” 

Harry was being prodded awake by rather pokey, insistent fingers. “ _ Up _ , Potter. I need you gone. Actually, I need you to have never been here in the first place.”

Harry blinked his eyes open, feeling rather groggy and hungover, which was usually how he felt when he slept over at Malfoy’s house. Which he never actually meant to do.“Fuck,” he muttered. “Stop poking me.”

“Then get up! Don’t you have anything better to do today than ruin my morning?” Malfoy gave Harry one final shove and got out of the bed himself, giving Harry a fleeting glimpse of his long, pale back before putting on his robe, which looked so soft that Harry secretly wanted to try it on every time he came over. Or maybe slide his hands inside it to find Malfoy’s soft skin, push it off his shoulders, and let it fall to the floor. Then he’d pull Malfoy back in bed and--

Harry blinked again. Not that he’d ever stick around long enough to do something like that. If he wanted that sort of thing, he should have kept sleeping with--well, someone who wasn’t Malfoy. At least with Malfoy, he always knew where he stood.

Usually, Harry tried to leave before Malfoy woke at all. He grimaced at the realization that this was happening often enough for him to use words like  _ usually.  _

“I’m up, I’m up,” Harry grumbled. “ _ You’re _ the one who invited me here, if you care to remember.”

“I don’t care to remember,” Malfoy said, picking Harry’s crumpled shirt off the floor and tossing it to him with a pinched look on his face. “I try to forget, as a matter of fact. Because this is never happening again.”

Right, Harry thought. Malfoy said the same thing every time they ended up together. Harry himself had said it a time or two. But the thing was, it always did happen again. He’d lost track of how many times he’d woken up at Malfoy’s place in the last six months. Always naked. Always with Malfoy laying next to him, sometimes peacefully asleep, sometimes awake and glaring and pushing Harry out of the bed. 

And it always happened after he ran into Malfoy at a particular Muggle bar.

* * *

Harry had started going to bars in Muggle London because it was less complicated for him there--or at least it used to be. The first time he saw Malfoy sitting at his favorite bar, chatting up a dark-haired Muggle bloke, Harry thought the bottom might drop out of his stomach. He’d been coming here for months and hadn’t seen anyone he knew. That was the way he liked it.  


Harry almost didn’t recognize Malfoy at first. He had the same delicate cheekbones and jawline (not that Harry had ever noticed those, of course), but his lean, angled body had filled out just a bit, and the tight Muggle clothing he wore looked as natural on him as any expensive wizarding robes he’d worn back at school. 

He looked good, but he was still the worst person Harry had ever met, and the last person he wanted to run into at his favorite bar. 

Harry started slowly backing out the front door, but then Malfoy glanced up and looked him right in the eyes.

“What are you doing here, Potter?” Malfoy hissed, leaping off his barstool to grab Harry’s arm. “Are you--are you  _ following  _ me?” To Harry’s surprise, Malfoy looked just about as rattled as Harry felt.

Harry yanked his arm away. “What do you mean,  _ following  _ you? I come here all the time and I’ve never seen you here. Are  _ you  _ following  _ me _ ?” He flushed; he shouldn’t have mentioned how often he comes for. After all this time, Malfoy could still rattle him.

“That’s idiotic,” said Malfoy. “You expect me to believe that  _ Harry Potter  _ frequents  _ this  _ bar?”

Harry stared at him. “Maybe,” he said at last, his mouth dry. “we’re both here for the same reasons.” He gestured to the bar, the dance floor, to the man Malfoy had been talking to when Harry came in.

Malfoy flushed. “Are you saying--”

“I’m saying--” Harry put his glass down on the bar so Malfoy wouldn’t see his hand shaking. Malfoy was not supposed to be here. Nobody was supposed to be here. Nobody he knew was supposed to see him in a place like this. That was the  _ whole point. _ He swallowed hard. “I’m saying that maybe we just pretend we didn’t see each other here, and never speak of this again.”

Malfoy considered Harry for a moment. “Fine, Potter. But if one word of this gets to the press--”

“The press!” An image of the Daily Prophet, with Harry’s face and this bar on the front page, flashed across his mind. He thought he might throw up. “Are you  _ mental _ ? I’m not calling the press. Are  _ you _ ?”

“No!” said Malfoy, irritated. “No, Potter. That’s why I--okay, whatever. Just…move along then. Go somewhere else. Be gone from here. Never come here again.”

No way,” Harry said, his desire to beat Malfoy flaring up against his desire to never see the prat again. “I told you, I come here all the time.  _ You  _ leave.”

“You are  _ insufferable _ ,” Malfoy said, waving to the bartender for another drink. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Well, neither am I,” said Harry, turning to the bartender, who looked at them uneasily, as though waiting for a fight. “Another for me as well.”

Hours later, they were both still there at the end of the night, glaring at one another from opposite ends of the bar.

“Order one more or get out,” the bartender told them. “You’ve been scaring away my clientele all night.”

Malfoy stumbled toward Harry, jabbing him in the chest with one pale finger. “Fuck off, Potter,” he slurred. “ _ You’re _ the problem. You’ve been following me for  _ years _ .”

“I’m not...I’m not  _ following  _ you,” Harry said again, putting a hand on the bar to steady himself. Merlin, he’d had too much to drink. “I’m here to fucking get laid, which you’ve thoroughly ruined.” His face flushed, and he drained his drink to hide his embarrassment. “I thought we established that earlier. We’re both here for the same reasons, remember?” 

Malfoy laughed. “Are you really that dense, Potter?” Malfoy said. “This is a  _ gay  _ bar. I thought you would have noticed after sitting at the bar all fucking night. A gay  _ Muggle  _ bar. None of your fawning admirers who read Witch Weekly are here. They’re back at the Leaky, waiting for a glimpse of their fucking Savior--”

And then Harry kissed him. 

Half to shut him up, half to prove him wrong. And maybe also a little bit because he looked so good in those Muggle jeans. Malfoy’s lips were soft and his face was smooth, and Harry wasn’t sure which of them was more surprised by the whole thing.

It was a rough kiss, and Malfoy stumbled backwards onto the counter stool behind him.

“Fuck, Potter,” Malfoy muttered, and then he kissed him back, nipping at Harry’s lip with his teeth. “You’re the goddamned  _ worst-- _ ”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry’s head felt a little woozy, but he pushed Malfoy back against the bar, hands on his hips. “Do you  _ ever  _ shut up?” Harry could feel the length of Malfoy’s body against him, the hard bulge of his cock in those jeans, and he still wanted to  _ kill  _ Malfoy, but he wanted to do about fifty other things to him first. 

They both jumped at the sound of a glass slamming down on the counter behind them. “All right, that’s enough,” the bartender said. “”I don’t care whether you fight or fuck, but you gotta do it somewhere else. Out, the both of you. I’m closing up.”

“Potter,” Malfoy spat, and for a second, Harry thought he was going to spin on his heel and walk away. But he didn’t. “Take this to my place?” he murmured in Harry’s ear.

“ _ Yes _ ,” Harry said, and he kept his grip on Malfoy’s hips as he was Apparated away.

Thirty seconds later, Malfoy was peeling off Harry’s black t-shirt. “Potter,” he muttered against Harry’s neck.

“Yeah?” Harry panted.

“This is  _ never  _ happening again.”

* * *

But it did happen again, and again, and again, and now it was almost Christmas, and Harry was here on yet another Saturday morning, six months after he first met Malfoy at the bar. 

By the time Harry got dressed and went out to the kitchen, Malfoy was there, putting on a kettle of tea, moving along with whatever he did after Harry left. He was still wearing that damned robe, and Harry knew for a fact that he was naked underneath. His put his hand on the doorknob, but his mind was under that robe. He wondered what Malfoy would do if he went over there and untied it, sliding his mouth down Malfoy’s torso till he was on his knees, right there in the kitchen--but their arrangement, or whatever it was, absolutely did not extend to the morning.

“I’ll--er--see you at the pub sometime,” he said, hand on the doorknob.

“Sure,” Malfoy said dryly, without looking at Harry. He took a single teacup from the cupboard.

“I’ll be a little busy though--Christmas and all, so I probably won’t be out much.”

“Potter,” Malfoy said, shaking his head. “Do I look like I care about your holiday plans? Trust me--this is  _ never  _ happening again.”


	2. Chapter 2

A few days later, Harry went over to Ron and Hermione’s for dinner. He still saw them fairly frequently, though his break-up with Ginny had caused a bit of a rift at first. Partially because Ron was still overly protective of his sister (which irked her more than it irked Harry), and partially because they had become somewhat of a foursome over time. 

It was a thing, Harry had learned, for couples to be friends with other couples, and when they suddenly weren’t Harry-and-Ginny and Hermione-and-Ron anymore, it was harder to remember how they’d once been Harry, Ron, and Hermione. But they were beginning to figure it out. It helped that he and Ron were in Auror training together and saw each other frequently during the week.

“I’ve missed you, Harry!” Hermione said, passing him a plate of rolls. “Where were you last weekend? You missed the Gryffindor night at the Leaky Caldron on Friday.”

Harry wet his lips nervously. He wondered how they’d react if he said  _ Actually, I was at a Muggle gay bar.  _ They’d be supportive, he thought, but hurt that he hadn’t told them sooner. They’d worry about what Ginny would say if she knew. Would she be hurt? Harry didn’t know.

Their breakup had been relatively amicable, considering that they'd been together for so long. “We were so young when we started,” he’d told Ginny, chewing on his bottom lip. “ Maybe we’re just meant to be friends.” It was the truth, but it wasn’t the whole truth.   


If Harry were telling the whole truth, he would have said something like "I still like women, but I think I'm also interested in men, and I need some time alone to figure that out," but he didn't say that to Ginny. It was quite a while before he was really even able to say it to himself.  


Harry supposed that he had always just assumed he was straight because he everyone else did, too, and he'd been too busy trying to survive the Dursleys, Hogwarts, and the war that he hadn't exactly noticed that he was much more interested in men than women, and probably always had been. Once Ginny had started traveling with the Holyhead Harpies, though, he'd finally had some time to himself and to think about who he was and what he'd wanted, and was dismayed to find out that his current life wasn't really it.  


His inner Hermione rolled her eyes every time he thought about this. “Honestly, Harry,” she would probably say. “Only you are so unobservant that you wouldn’t realize that you’re bi.” 

In any case, once he did realize it, he felt like he had to escape his already strained relationship with Ginny and try something new. He just never expected that the “something new” would be shagging Draco Malfoy.

So he didn’t tell Ron and Hermione about the gay bar, and he definitely did not tell them about Malfoy. 

“I wasn’t feeling up for the Gryffindor pub night,” he said finally. “Long week.”

“I hear that, mate,” Ron latched onto the excuse, much to Harry’s relief. “The last year of Auror training has been awful.” He launched into a lengthy description of the grunt work he’d had to do that week, and Harry, knowing it all already, let his mind wander.

This was another thing that he couldn’t tell his friends: He didn’t like Auror training. “Nobody likes Auor training,” Ron would say, but Harry  _ really  _ didn’t like it. He hated the first year, which had all been lessons and theory, and he hated the second year, which was mainly doing paperwork for Aurors in the field. Everyone said it got better in the third year, when you actually got to go out in the field, but Harry hated that, too. Stakeouts were boring, and when there actually  _ was  _ action, it was stressful, and reminded him of the war. 

After particularly bad days, his old nightmares would flare up, and he’d take Dreamless Sleep potions to get through the night. He knew he couldn’t keep that up either, but he didn’t see how he could get through the rest of his training without it.

“But Harry,” his inner Hermione asked him. “What will you do when you’re actually an Auror, and you’re in the field  _ every day _ ?” 

He didn’t know. That was another reason he liked going to the Muggle pub. He could have a few drinks and be totally anonymous. He could try forget that he was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived to Not Know What to Do With His Life. But then he started sleeping with Malfoy and mucked that up, too. 

“Harry!” The real Hermione was waving her fork in front of his face. “Honestly, you’re still just as absent-minded as you were at school. I was asking you, what day are you going to the Weasleys for Christmas?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said blankly. “Maybe the day before Christmas Eve?”

“Andromeda and Teddy are coming this year,” Hermione said. “Molly invited her.”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry said, grinning. “Teddy told me all about it when I took him to Zonko’s last week. They’re coming for a week so he can get some family time.”

“Yeah, since his only family are the Lestranges and the Malfoys,” Ron said, grimacing. “Lucky he’s got you, Harry.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, trying to keep his face neutral at the mention of Malfoy, who probably didn’t even know that Teddy existed. It was odd to think that Remus Lupin's son--Harry's godson--was related to the man he was shagging. Harry supposed it was easy to forget given that he and Malfoy never spoke.  


He wondered idly what Malfoy would do for Christmas, with Lucius in Azkaban. Maybe he’d spend it with his mother, or maybe he’d go to the Muggle bar. Maybe he’d go home with some bloke who wasn’t Harry. He wondered if Malfoy ever spent longer than one night with anyone else, wondered if there was someone else lounging on Malfoy's silky sheets right this minute, sliding a hand up Malfoy's pale thighs, reaching under that plush white robe. Harry felt a surge of irritation at that image, followed by irritation at his own irritation. Malfoy could sleep with whoever he wanted, Harry thought, stabbing a potato with his fork. Why should Harry care? 

Sex with Malfoy was just sex, and chances were that it was never going to happen again.  


“Harry?” Hermione was saying with a laugh. “Goodness, where is your mind today? Ron just asked you if you’d heard that Charlie was coming in for Christmas this year?”

“Why would I care?” Harry said, too rudely. Hermione raised her eyebrows in surprise. “I mean, yes, sorry, I had heard,” he amended quickly. “Someone must have mentioned it. It’ll, ah, it’ll be good to see him.”   


Charlie was the one who had mentioned it, actually, but Harry wasn’t about to tell Ron and Hermione that. Harry still had the note from Charlie in his pocket, as a matter of fact. He’d received it last week, and hadn’t yet responded. He felt a sudden stab of guilt in the pit of his stomach at the thought. He'd planned to respond on Friday, but then he'd run into Malfoy and completely forgotten.  


_ Mum says you’ll be at the house for Christmas, Harry. I’ll be there too. Pick up where we left off last time? Looking forward to it. -CW _

“Charlie never used to come home for so many holidays,” Ron said, frowning. “The last year or so, he’s been home more than ever. Wonder why.”

Harry thought he had a pretty good idea why Charlie was coming home so often, but he wasn’t about to tell Ron and Hermione that, anymore than he was about to tell them about the bar, or Malfoy, or hating Auror training.

Because Charlie Weasley was another one of Harry’s secrets.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry went home from Hermione and Ron’s, not feeling much better than he had before he went. It was as good to see them as ever, but he was distracted, thinking about Malfoy, and Auror training, and Teddy, and that note from Charlie that was still burning a hole in his pocket. He decided to walk the last few blocks home to clear his head, and pulled out the note to look at the last sentence.

_Pick up where we left off last time? -CW_

Harry sighed. Molly had apologized the first time she'd asked them to room together at the Burrow. “I’m so sorry, Harry, dear; I know Charlie snores, but you’re the only two who are single, so it’s really the only option.” Then she'd rattled off the names of the couples: Bill and Fleur, Ron and Hermione, George and Angelina, Percy and Audrey, and left Harry feeling quite alone.

He didn't like to think about the details, but it didn't take long for things to get a bit out of hand. Suffice it to say, the snoring had hardly been a problem at all, and he’d woken up in Charlie’s arms at the last three family gatherings. Every time he thought about it, he felt a sinking sort of guilt in his stomach, even worse than what he felt about sleeping with Malfoy.

Things were a lot easier back when he’d shared a room with Ron at the holidays, he mused. They’d also been a lot easier before he broke up with Ginny and started sleeping with her brother.

Did he want to pick up where he’d left off with Charlie Weasley? It was just one more thing that Harry didn't know.

He was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice Draco Malfoy sitting on the front step of 12 Grimmauld Place until he was nearly at the door. The late evening light was dim, and Malfoy didn’t see Harry at first, either. He was looking down at a piece of parchment that was clutched tightly in his hands. He wore a smart looking suit, gray with a slight sheen to it, the sort of style that Harry had seen in some of the nicer shops in Diagon Alley. Harry realized quite suddenly that he didn’t know what Malfoy did during the day. He must have a job, Harry thought, or did he? Perhaps he still lived off the Malfoy family fortune, and did nothing but laze around in expensive-looking suits all day. It was a rather appealing thought.

“Malfoy?” Harry said tentatively. “What are you doing here?” He realized that he was still holding the note from Charlie, and shoved it deep into his pocket.

Malfoy's head snapped up and he got to his feet in one smooth movement, dusting off his suit. It fit him impeccably, Harry noticed. He thought that he might even like the suit better than Malfoy's plush white robe, although he'd never tell the prat any of that to his face.

“Potter,” Malfoy said coldly, though his trademark sneer seemed a bit half-hearted. Harry looked curiously at him. Malfoy folded the parchment carefully and put it in his suit pocket.

“What are you doing here?” Harry said again, and then another thought occurred to him. “How do you know where I live?”

Malfoy chewed on his bottom lip in a way that Harry, for all his years of staring at Malfoy, had never seen before. “Everyone knows where you live, Potter," he said at last. "My moth—I mean, my family just about had a conniption when we heard that you, of all people, inherited the old Black house.”

“Oh,” Harry said, feeling foolish. Right. It was easy to forget that Malfoy had all these connections—to Teddy, to Sirius, to Grimmauld place. Malfoy was more connected to the people and places Harry loved than Harry was. It was not a comforting thought.

He opened his mouth to ask Malfoy for the third time what, exactly, he was doing there, but before he could, Malfoy reached out and grabbed his hand, something unreadable in his eyes. Harry stared down at their clasped palms in surprise. He could see the cold cloud of Malfoy's breath in the December air.

“Potter, just—” Malfoy sighed, chewing on his lip in that new, unsettling, un-Malfoylike way. “Just, please. Invite me inside, all right?”

* * *

Feeling slightly disoriented, Harry unlocked the door and led Malfoy into Number 12, Grimmauld Place.

“Kreacher!” he called, and the elf appeared with a sudden _crack._ He and Malfoy looked at one another in surprise, and Kreacher's face spread into a pleased smile.

"Master, you is bringing home guests?"

“Er—hello, Kreacher,” Harry said awkwardly, looking between the two of them. “Yes. A, ah, guest. Please, ah, put a pot of tea on for Malfoy and myself, would you?”

“Malfoy?” said Kreacher happily, looking from Harry to Malfoy. “You is young Master Malfoy?” Malfoy glanced sideways at Harry, but didn’t say anything at all. Something was definitely wrong with him, Harry thought. He couldn't imagine a scenario in which Malfoy wouldn’t take gleeful advantage of being called _Master_ in Harry’s home.

“No,” Harry told Kreacher, irritated. “He is _not_ your master. The tea, please." Kreacher frowned at Harry before Disapperating with a loud _crack._

“He came with the house,” Harry said shortly, avoiding Malfoy's gaze as he led him into the sitting room. But of course, Malfoy knew that already. “Have—er—have you been here before? To Grimmauld Place?’

Malfoy chewed on his lip again. “Once or twice, when I was a child.” He absently patted the pocket where he’d stashed the parchment, and didn’t offer up anything else, so Harry didn’t either. He tried to imagine a young Malfoy visiting Walburga Black with his mother. Sirius would have been in Azkaban by then, with his brother and perhaps his father already dead. It must have been a dark, depressing place.

The pair of them settled onto opposite ends of the sofa, avoiding each others' gaze. Harry had no idea what to do with a version of Malfoy who wasn’t snide or rude or drunk or naked. “How—er—how is your mother?” he asked tentatively.

“Don’t ask about my mother, Potter,” Malfoy snapped, sounding like himself at last. “I didn’t come here for small talk.”

“Okay. Why _are_ you here, then?”

Malfoy didn't answer, and they sat in silence for what seemed like several endless minutes. Harry's curiosity and irritation mounted. Their relationship—no, their _arrangement_ —was built on secrecy and discretion, and Malfoy could have ruined everything by showing up at Grimmauld place tonight. Suppose someone had seen Malfoy sitting on Harry’s steps. Suppose Ron and Hermione had come round with him and he’d had to explain Malfoy’s presence on his doorstep. Malfoy, presumably, knew all of these risks. And yet he’d come _here_ , to Grimmauld Place, on a Wednesday night. To Harry, though Malfoy made it clear on a semi-regular basis that he never wanted to see him again.

He thought about asking Malfoy these questions, but he didn’t seem open to questions at all. He wasn’t like any version of Malfoy Harry had ever seen before. His eyes darting around the room nervously. He smoothed down his hair twice in ten seconds. He jostled his knee up and down, and patted his pocket. Harry wondered what had been written on that piece of parchment.

“Something a bit stronger than tea, then?” Harry asked at last.

Malfoy let out a long, slow breath through his nose. “Yes,” he said, sounding relieved. “That would be good.”

Harry poured them each a glass of Firewhiskey and brought Malfoy’s over to the sofa. But to his surprise, Malfoy grabbed Harry by the wrist and pulled him down beside him.He took the glass of Firewhiskey from Harry and downed half of it in one gulp.

"That's expensive," Harry said, irritated, but Malfoy ignored him, leaning in closer, until Harry could feel his hot breath on his cheek. Harry shivered, and didn't pull away.

“Malfoy—”

“Don’t speak,” said Malfoy. “Just—I just—” His eyes glistened, and for a brief moment, Harry thought that he was going to cry. But then he was pulling Harry in and kissing him roughly, his arm encircling Harry's waist. Harry pulled back, startled.

“Take this off,” Malfoy muttered, tugging at Harry’s shirt. “Take everything off.”

“Wait,” Harry said. “Let’s—let’s go to the bedroom, before Kreacher comes back.” He grabbed Malfoy by the arm and led him up the stairs.

By the time they reached the bedroom, Malfoy had drained the rest of the glass of Firewhiskey. He placed it on the bedside table, and Harry watched as he slipped out of his suit jacket and shirt, exposing the smooth, pale chest and the light dusting of hair that lead beneath his trousers. As agitated as he was, he draped them carefully on the back of Harry's chair before unbuttoning his pants.

Harry's breath hitched; he'd seen Malfoy undress like this countless times, but never in his home, never without being a bit tipsy himself, never on a Wednesday night. He glanced around the room, feeling somewhat embarrassed at the state of things; the bare walls, the unmade bed, the owl treats scattered on the windowsill. But Malfoy didn’t seem to notice any of that. Silently, he closed the distance between he and Harry, and pulled him toward the bed with singular focus.

Harry pulled back one last time.

“Malfoy, are you sure—”

“Shut up, Potter,” Malfoy growled, unzipping Harry’s pants and pushing him back against the pillows. “Just—try not to act like a fucking Hufflepuff, for once in your life. Pretend it’s Friday and we’ve just left the pub, or just—just, _please_.”

And Harry complied. He let Malfoy peel off his shirt and unzip his pants. He let Malfoy straddle his lap and bite his neck. He let him pull his hardening cock out of his pants and take it into his mouth, sucking him desperately. Harry let Malfoy touch him everywhere until he couldn't take it anymore and pushed Malfoy onto his back, sliding their bodies together until they were slick with sweat and desire and nothing else seemed to matter anymore.

Harry let himself be Malfoy’s distraction, because he wanted it, too.

When they had finished, Malfoy lay on his back on top of the covers, his breathing ragged, his eyes closed.

“Malfoy,” Harry started to say, but stopped short as one wet tear and then another slid down Malfoy’s pale cheek. There was a time, he thought, when he’d have liked the idea of a miserable, crying Malfoy, but he found that it wasn’t nearly so satisfying as he would have thought.

“Malfoy—”

“Don’t say anything,” Malfoy said sharply, his voice cracking. “Just—don’t.”

Harry paused. “Okay,” he said at last. “I’m going to sleep. But you can stay, if you want.”

Malfoy didn’t say anything, but after a while, he muttered a cleaning charm and crawled under the covers beside Harry. He stared up at the ceiling, and in the growing darkness, Harry opened his mouth half a dozen times to ask him half a dozen questions.

 _What was that about?_ he wanted to say. _What was on that parchment?_ _Why are you here?_

But he didn’t. Maybe in the morning, Harry thought, as his eyes drifted shut. He’d ask Malfoy about all of it in the morning, whatever it was.

But in the morning, Malfoy was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

In the following days, Harry almost felt as though he had imagined his Wednesday night encounter with Malfoy. If it weren’t for the empty Firewhiskey glass Malfoy had left on his bedside table, he almost could have convinced himself that it hadn’t happened at all. But try as he might, he couldn’t quite shake his curiosity or concern over the odd Wednesday night encounter, and even went so far as to write Malfoy a note asking if he was all right. Right before he sent Hedwig off with it, he pulled her back through the window and crumpled the note in his hand. 

It wasn’t any of his business whether or not Malfoy was all right, he thought, tossing it in the trash. That wasn’t how their arrangement worked, and frankly, he told himself, he didn’t care one way or the other. 

In the end, he didn’t have much time to dwell on it at all. He had piles of paperwork to finish for the Aurors before he could leave for Christmas break on the weekend, and it kept him busy right up until Friday evening, when Ron and Hermione invited him out to Three Broomsticks for drinks. 

He was pleased to see that Neville, newly appointment Herbology professor at Hogwarts, was able to sneak out to meet them. Finally, he thought, leaving behind his piles of paperwork and his Junior Auror badge at the Ministry. A Gryffindors-only night out on Friday, and by Saturday, he’d be eating Molly’s cooking and helping Teddy learn to fly on his new toy broom. 

No work, no stress, and best of all, no Malfoy.

At the Three Broomsticks, he settled in comfortably next to Neville, downing half a bottle of beer in two gulps.

“Easy there, mate,” Ron said with a grin. “Shit week, wasn’t it?”

_ You don’t know the half of it _ , Harry thought. He grimaced and took another drink, hoping that Ron wouldn't bring up Auror training. “How’re things at Hogwarts, Nev?”   


“Oh, fine,” said Neville, shrugging. “Looking forward to spending some time with my gran, though. She’s getting up there, needs me to take care of a few things around the house.”

“She's lucky she’s got you, Neville,” Hermione said encouragingly, and as Neville launched into a story about the Boggart he’d got out of his gran’s closet at Easter, Harry let his mind wander. 

On top of the odd night he'd had with Malfoy, and the paperwork he'd had to finish that day, he just hadn't been sleeping well. He’d slept fine the night Malfoy came over--he supposed he’d been feeling good after having dinner with Ron and Hermione--but Thursday night, he’d been overcome by nightmares and laid awake in the darkness throughout the early hours of the morning. His senior Auror partner had asked Harry to write out a long, detailed account of a recent raid on a Death Eaters’ home in the afternoon, and Harry’d spent the night wrestling with nightmares about Horcruxes and the cellar at Malfoy Manor, waking in a cold sweat again and again throughout the night. 

He shuddered, thinking about it, and Hermione gave him an odd look. He shrugged at her and turned back to the conversation.

“...and you’ll never believe it, but it was Malfoy!” Neville was saying.

Harry turned toward him, startled. “What were you saying?”

“Harry, are you all right?” Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow at him. “Neville was saying that ran into Malfoy at Hogwarts today.”

“I’m fine, Hermione.” Harry tipped back his beer and drained the rest of the bottle. “How-er--how was he? Malfoy.” 

Neville shrugged. “Fine. Nicer. He, ah, apologized for everything that happened back at school.”

Harry stared at him. “He did?”

Ron snorted. “Apologized for what? Being an absolute asshole, or being a blood purist, or trying to get us all killed?”

Neville shrugged again. “All of it, I suppose. He seemed nicer. Bit on edge, though.”

Malfoy on edge, now that, Harry could imagine. The apology, not so much. “What, ah, what was he doing at Hogwarts?” he asked.

“He brews potions with some company in Hogsmeade,” Neville explained. “Medicinal, mostly. They stock the Hogwarts hospital wing and St. Mungo’s. He came by to consult with Madame Pomfrey.”

Malfoy had been good at potions back at Hogwarts, Harry remembered, but he had no idea that he’d gone into it as a career. He thought of Malfoy’s long fingers and careful, precise movements. Brewing probably suited him. 

“I haven’t seen Malfoy in years,” said Ron. “Almost forgot about him, to be honest. Seems like just yesterday that Harry was obsessively following him around the castle, eh Hermione?” Harry flipped Ron off, his heart beating fast, and Ron and Hermione laughed.

“I think Malfoy keeps a low profile these days,” Neville said thoughtfully. “Must be tough to keep a job when you’ve got the Dark Mark on your arm.”

Harry nodded. He hadn’t really thought about that. The first time he’d seen Malfoy’s Dark Mark--the first time he’d gone home with Malfoy from the bar--it had given him pause, but Malfoy had expertly guided Harry’s gaze and hands to other parts of his body. Now, Harry barely noticed it at all, dark though it was against Malfoy’s pale forearm.

What startled him the most about Neville’s revelations was the apology. Malfoy had never apologized to Harry--but then again, they never spoke. 

* * *

The next morning, slightly hungover but relieved to be on break, Harry Apparated to the front yard of the Burrow, ready for a week of rest and relaxation and Molly’s cooking. Every year, he felt more and more grateful for Christmas at the Weasleys. They’d opened their home to him for nearly fifteen years now, and considered him one of their own, even after he’d broken up with Ginny. 

“Harry!” Molly exclaimed when he let himself in the front door. “You’re here! That’s just about everyone then, just waiting on a few more to arrive. She stuck her head through the kitchen door. “Ron! Hermione! Harry’s here!”

“Hey, Harry,” Ginny appeared in the doorway, her face flushed from the outdoors. “Glad you made it. Quidditch later?”

Harry grinned at her. “Only if we’re on the same team,” he said. “I’m not playing opposite Holyhead Harpies’ Player of the Year.”

Ginny laughed. “Saw that, did you? Fine by me, we can stack it--you, me, and Charlie against Ron, Bill, and George.”

“Enough Quidditch talk, you two,” Molly scolded. “There’s time enough for that. Harry, go ahead and take your things upstairs, I’ve got you in the same room as usual, the one you shared with Charlie last time.”

Harry waved at Ginny and dragged his duffle bag upstairs. It felt good to be here, he thought. No matter else was happening in his life, the Burrow always felt like home. He set the bag down on the bed and stretched his arms over his head, wondering if he had time for a bit of a lie-in before dinner.  


“You made it.”

Harry turned and saw Charlie standing in the doorway. He was the shortest of the Weasley brothers; sturdy and muscles, his red hair shaggy, his beard slightly grizzled. He grinned and Harry, and glancing behind him, shut the door and closed the distance between them.

“Hey,” Harry said, his stomach fluttering. Charlie put his arms around Harry’s waist and kissed him on the mouth without warning.

“Staking your claim?” Harry asked, pausing for just a moment before relaxing into Charlie’s embrace. 

“What do you mean? Isn’t this how you and Ron greet each other?” Charlie said with a laugh. “Nah, I’ve just missed you,” he said honestly, and Harry flushed.

“I missed you too,” he said, and it was true. Charlie was everything Malfoy wasn't: kind and funny, a good listener, a good friend. He pulled back as though the kiss they’d just shared was nothing more than a friendly hello, and grinned broadly at Harry.

“I’ve been anticipating that for ages,” he said. “That and other things. Did you get my letter?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, flushing more deeply. “Sorry, I…”

Charlie rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know. Communication isn’t your thing. It’s fine. Listen, Mum’s actually got me rooming with George this time, so I won’t be rooming with you.”

“Oh?” Harry was surprised to feel some relief at this news. “She, er, didn’t find out about...well, you know...did she?”

“Merlin, no,” Charlie said. “She’d have murdered me already if she found out that I’ve been corrupting you. She loves you best of all of us you know,” he teased. Harry gave him a good natured punch on the arm, and Charlie chuckled.

“Anyhow, it’s nothing like that,” he went on. “Angelina’s not coming after all, and Mum’s got it in her head that George can’t bear to stay on that room alone, what with Fred gone and all. You know how she overthinks the sleeping arrangements. But if you’ve got this room to yourself, I can come by tonight, if you like?” He grinned at Harry, slipping his arms around his waist again. “Like usual?”

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, thinking about all the times the pair of them had nicked a bottle of wine and snuck away from the family drama, lounging on one of the twin beds until late into the night. He liked Charlie, and he liked the ease and comfort of being with him; the way Charlie casually touched Harry every time nobody was looking, the way he nuzzled the back of his neck when they spooned together at night. He liked the way their bodies fit together, and the way Charlie listened when Harry talked.

Everything he liked about Charlie was everything that Malfoy wasn’t. 

_ Don’t think about Malfoy,  _ Harry scolded himself as Charlie slid his hands up Harry’s back and waited for his response. It would be nice to have the room to himself this year so he could clear his head, Harry thought, but it would be nice to spend a little time with Charlie, too. 

He opened his mouth to say so, but the pair of them jumped apart at the sound of shouts from downstairs.

“Charlie! George! Ron! Ginny!” Molly shouted up the stairs. “Whoever transfigured the dining room table into a sandbox best get down here  _ this instant _ !”

Harry snorted with laughter.

“I  _ swear  _ it wasn’t me,” Charlie said with a grin. “But I’d better go help. Later, Harry.” He brushed a kiss across Harry’s lips, and disappeared through the door.

Harry flopped down on the bed and closed his eyes. He’d go help too, he thought. But first, he’d take a few moments of quiet while he still could.  



	5. Chapter 5

By the time Harry woke from his nap and came downstairs, the sandbox had been turned back into a dinner table, the room was filled with a mob of Weasleys—Bill, Fleur, and their small daughter Victoire, Ron and Hermione, Percy and Audrey, George, Ginny, and Charlie, all as promised—Molly was levitating in a tureen of something that smelled delicious, and someone small was hurtling toward Harry at breakneck speeds.

“HARRY!!” Teddy screamed, launching himself at Harry’s knees.

"TEDDY!!" Harry yelled back, lifting him up in the air. Teddy squealed with delight, his blue hair rapidly turning black. Harry grinned at him. "Nice trick, Ted."

“He’s getting a bit big to be lifted, isn’t he?” Andromeda said, standing up to peck Harry on the cheek. "Looking more like Remus and Dora every day."

Harry nodded and gave Teddy an extra squeeze; it was only in the past couple years that he could begin to think of Professor Lupin, Tonks, Fred, and the others without feeling an overwhelming sense of loss. "He really does look like them, doesn't he? Though I'm rather liking this black hair." He gave the newly darkened curls a tug, and Teddy laughed.

“I'm not too big for Harry to lift,” Teddy protested to his grandmother. “He’s an Auror. He’s strong.”

Harry laughed and set Teddy down to hug Andromeda. "It’s good to see you,” he told her. “I’m so glad you and Teddy could come this year.”

“We wouldn’t have missed it,” she said fondly. “Dora always spoke so fondly of the family, and of course Teddy’s delighted to spend time with you. By the way, did Molly tell you that we invited--oh Molly, let me help you with that dish. We’ll talk later, Harry.”

“Come on, Harry, sit by me,” Teddy said, leading Harry to the table. "Over here, by Victoire."

“No, Harry,’s sitting by _me,_ ” George said, budging Teddy out of his chair.

“Very funny, George” Teddy said, sticking out his tongue. “You can’t fool me. I’m six and that’s my seat.”

“Popular man, Harry is,” Charlie said, sliding into a seat across the table. “Didn’t realize there was a sign up sheet.”

Harry grinned at him. “Don’t worry, I’ll sit by you later, Charlie.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” Charlie said, sliding his foot over Harry's under the table.

Everything was perfect, Harry thought as he helped Teddy push George out of his chair. He let Molly load up his plate with more food that he'd eaten in the past week, and breathed out a contented sigh of relief.

* * *

“No way!” Ron burst out thirty minutes later, once they’d cleared their plates and were leaning back comfortably in their chairs. “Absolutely not fair! Charlie and Harry _cannot_ be on the same team for Quidditch, and Ginny, I mean, really, you’re a professional Quidditch player, you ought to just referee, or something--”

“Sorry Ron, Harry and I already called it,” said Ginny, winking at Harry. “We'll play tomorrow after breakfast. Three on three.”

“Charlie and Harry both play Seeker, it doesn’t even make _sense--_ ”

“Ron, you can be on my team,” Teddy said earnestly. Harry caught Andromeda’s eye and hid a smile behind his wine glass. “I have my own broom now.”

“Thank you, Teddy,” Ron said, raising his glass in a mock toast. “At least _someone_ recognizes my talent—“

“All right, all right, we can trade,” said Harry. “You take Charlie--sorry, Charlie--and me and Ginny’ll take—Ron?” But Ron had stopped listening and was staring at the kitchen door, his mouth slightly agape.

When Harry turned to see what the fuss was about, he nearly dropped his glass of wine on the floor. He blinked twice, just to be sure he wasn't seeing things.

Draco Malfoy was standing in the Weasley kitchen, glancing around the room as though he wasn’t quite sure where to look. He stood stiffly, carrying an overnight bag, his coat draped carefully over his arm. He’d spotted Harry at the same time that Harry spotted his, and his eyes widened in surprise.

“Draco!” Teddy yelped, scraping his chair back to get at Malfoy, his hair changing from jet black to white blonde in the time it took for him to rush across the room. So Draco and Teddy did know each other, Harry thought with a frown.

“Hi, Ted,” Malfoy said quietly. He ruffled Teddy’s hair, a gesture that looked oddly warm coming from Malfoy, but his eyes lingered on Harry. He at least had the decency to look as shocked as Harry felt.

“Draco, darling,” Andromeda said, standing to greet him. “Come in, dear. We’re just finishing up dinner.”

“I got off work early,” Draco said, glancing around the table, his face rather pink. Harry had never seen him look so embarrassed.“Sorry, I should have—I didn’t realize you’d have such a full house tonight, or that I’d be interrupting your dinner.”

‘Nonsense,” said Molly, smiling broadly. “When Andromeda said she’d invited you, I said, the more the merrier, didn’t I? I know you children had your differences in school, but times have changed, haven’t they? And I was just telling Harry that you’d be rooming with him, wasn’t I, Harry?”

This time, Harry did drop his wine glass on the floor. He barely noticed Hermione ducking down to Vanish it.

“ _What_?” he said in alarm. “No, Mrs. Weasley. You didn’t. You definitely didn’t.”

“Oh, I’m sure I did,” Molly said pleasantly. “It’s no trouble, Draco, dear, really--”

“No,” Harry said again, but nobody was listening.

“Harry can show you to your room--”

“Oh, no.” Malfoy shook his head, his face looking rather pinched. “Listen, you know, I don’t need to stay. I can Apparate back to my place, it’s fine--”

“Good idea,” said Harry. “Really for the best. It’s a small room—” Malfoy was nodding; at least they could agree on _something_ , Harry thought bleakly. He looked helplessly at Ron, whose mouth was open, looking from Harry to Malfoy in horror. The other Weasleys, too, were silent; Harry wondered if anyone knew that Malfoy was going to show up.

“No!” Teddy burst out. “No! I want you to stay! We’re playing Quidditch tomorrow. You can stay with Harry, Draco. Harry doesn’t care, do you, Harry?”

“I, er--”

“Really, Draco, do stay.” Molly looked sternly at Harry. “Teddy’s right. Harry doesn’t mind a bit."

Malfoy looked around the room at the rest of them, carefully avoiding Harry’s gaze. “Fine,” he said finally. “I’ll stay.”

“Excellent,” said Molly, beaming at them all. “Harry will show you upstairs.”

Harry cast one more helpless look around the table; Hermione looked sympathetically at him, Ron stared, George looked furious, and Charlie simply shrugged--and then Molly was handing Harry Malfoy’s coat, and he was assaulted by the fresh pine smell of Malfoy’s cologne.

His sheets at home still smelled like that, Harry thought suddenly. They had since Wednesday night. He felt his face flush.

“Well, come on, then,” he said at last, and led Malfoy out of the room.

* * *

Harry rounded on Malfoy the moment they reached the staircase.

“What are you _doing_ here?” he hissed, shoving Malfoy's coat back at him.

"Manners, Potter," said Malfoy, but he didn't look much happier than Harry felt. "Andromeda invited me. You know, seeing as she’s my _aunt_. What are _you_ doing here? This isn’t even your family!”

“I always spend Christmas here! I have for years!” Harry said hotly."Teddy's my godson!"

“Well how was I supposed to know you'd be _here_? You broke up with G--You know what, whatever, Potter. And I didn’t know I’d be sharing a room when I agreed to come here. Least of all not with you.”

“Well what did you expect?” Harry retorted. “We don’t all live in fucking manor houses where everyone gets their own wing--”

“I don’t live there anymore,” Malfoy interrupted. “Which you obviously know, seeing as you've been to my flat.”

“Oh shut _up_ ” Harry muttered. “Keep it to yourself, will you?” He yanked open the door to the little bedroom, and gestured to the empty twin bed.

“There. That’s yours.”

“Oh,” said Malfoy. Harry waited for him to comment on the size or plainness of the room, but the complaints didn’t come. “All right, then,” Malfoy said, and put his case down on the bed. He looked up at Harry. “This is absurd, you know.”

“What?” Harry realized that he had never seen Malfoy dressed so casually before. He was wearing Muggle clothes, the way many Wizards tended to on vacation, but instead of looking rather haphazard and casual the Weasleys did, Malfoy looked like a catalog model for an expensive department store; tailored jeans that looked as though they might have been pressed, and a soft blue sweater that Harry rather wanted to touch.

Stop that, he thought to himself. Just because you and Malfoy fuck every now and then doesn’t mean you can start _touching_ him. "What's absurd?"

“Do you really need me to spell it out for you?” Malfoy said, shaking his head. “I knew you were daft, but really, Potter--it’s absurd that we’ve been _fucking_ for the last six months, and now we’re sharing a goddamn room with _twin beds._ ”

Harry stared at him. He’d never expected Malfoy to come out and say it, not like that. He'd thought they might pretend that it had never happened at all. “Oh, _that_ ,” he said sarcastically. “I’d almost forgotten. Would you like to talk about Wednesday night, then? Cause I have some questions--”

“Enough, Potter,” Malfoy interrupted, his cheeks flushed. “I don’t want to talk about anything at all. Now leave me alone, will you? If I’m being forced to stay here, I need to unpack.”

Harry shut the door behind him without a word, and went downstairs to find Ron and Hermione. Merlin, he thought, as a new pit of anxiety began to form in his stomach. Nothing good could come of this.


	6. Chapter 6

There were already raised voices coming from the dining room by the time Harry got back downstairs. He grimaced; he'd been so busy thinking about his own discomfort that he'd forgotten that the Weasleys might be angry, too.  


“Like  _ hell  _ I’ll be courteous, Mum,” George shouted. “What were you thinking, inviting him here--”

Harry sighed and cast a silencing charm on the door before pushing it open. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t particularly want Malfoy to have to hear this. They should at least say it all to Malfoy’s face, he thought _—_ not that he, Harry, had ever done so.

Inside, he slipped into a chair beside Hermione, who grimaced at him. “It’s a nightmare,” she whispered. “What was Molly  _ thinking _ ?” 

Harry glanced around the table. “Where are Andromeda and Teddy?” he whispered back.

“Andromeda took him and Victoire to bed after you and Malfoy left, thank Merlin.” Harry nodded gratefully; Andromeda and the children didn't need to hear any of this.

“Don’t talk to your mother that way,” Mr. Weasley was saying to George. “Though, Molly, perhaps he has a point. The war wasn’t all that long ago. Old wounds take a long time to heal.” 

Mrs. Weasley’s face reddened; with anger or remorse, Harry couldn’t tell. Across the table, Charlie met his gaze wearily, and Harry raised his eyebrows in grim solidarity at the whole thing, even though guilt was beginning to fester in his stomach. He’d slept with Malfoy just three days ago, offered him a drink in his own home. He didn’t even want to know what George and Hermione would say about that.

_ Wine?  _ Charlie mouthed at him. He nodded gratefully, and Charlie slid a glass across the table. Charlie loathed family drama, and for once, Harry couldn’t blame him. A trip to Romania was sounding pretty good right about now.

“Dad’s right,” George said loudly. “I know you and Andromeda are chummy now, Mum, but Malfoy was a Death Eater! He almost  _ killed  _ Ron _ —" _

“Not on purpose.” Ron said quietly, to Harry’s surprise.

George glared at him. “Oh, my mistake, Ron. He was only trying to  _ kill Dumbledore.” _ He turned back to his mother. “The war’s never going to be over, Mum. I lost my fucking ear, Bill’s  _ disfigured— _ “ 

“Thanks, George,” Bill said drily. Next to him, Fleur's face was even paler than usually; she put a hand on Bill's arm but didn't say a word.  


“—and Tonks and Lupin—and Merlin, Mum,  _ Fred _ —” George’s face had gone red and splotchy under his hair. Harry looked down, his own ears reddening. It had been easy to detach himself from Malfoy before, when it was just the two of them, drunk, fumbling around in the darkness. But here, faced with Fred’s empty chair and George’s anger, it was something else. A deep shame crept over him for all he’d done.

“George,” Charlie said softly. “Please.” A silence fell over the table. Next to Harry, Hermione looked down at her lap; Ron reached over and took her hand, his own face red, too. 

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Molly said at last. “Do you think I don’t know that _ my own son is dead _ ?” She stared at George, who looked back at her defiantly. “Draco Malfoy was just a boy, same as the rest of you. His mother kicked him out, do you know that? She told him not to come home for Christmas, never to come home again. After all he did for them! His own  _ mother _ .” 

Harry thought suddenly of Wednesday night, the parchment Malfoy had folded carefully into his pocket.  _ Don’t ask about my mother, Potter,  _ he’d snapped. The guilt in Harry’s stomach eased, but only slightly. Regardless of what Malfoy’s family life was like, he was still a git. Always had been.

The room fell silent; George got to his feet and left, slamming the door behind him. 

There were tears in Molly’s eyes when Harry finally looked up. “You don’t have to like him.” she said at last. “You don't have to be friends with him. But he’s Andromeda’s family, and he deserves to have a home for Christmas.”

* * *

An hour later, Harry was sitting in the living room with Charlie, Ron, and Hermione. The rest of the family had gone to bed, an uneasy truce reached after Molly’s final proclamation. 

It was the time of night when Harry and Charlie normally might have snuck away from the rest of them, bottle of wine in hand. But with Malfoy upstairs they had nowhere to go. Charlie exchanged a glance with him and Harry knew that he was thinking the same thing.

“George does have a point,” Hermione said quietly. “I mean, Malfoy probably  _ has  _ changed, but the war wasn’t that long ago, and he was awful to all of us. He did a lot of awful things.”

“Teddy likes him, though,” Ron pointed out. “And Andromeda. That has to count for something.”

Harry felt another pang at this, though whether it was jealousy or something else, he wasn’t sure. Teddy did seem to like Malfoy, oddly enough. But then again, Teddy was six years old. He liked everyone. 

“I wondered why Malfoy didn’t come back down,” Hermione said. “I hope he didn’t hear any of what George was saying. Even if he deserves it.”

“He didn’t,” Harry said. “He was unpacking, and I—I cast a silencing charm on the kitchen door before I came in.” The others looked at him in surprise. “I just—I guess I felt that he should hear it said to his face, you know? If it’s got to be said. It’s—it’s Christmas.” Hermione reached over and gave his arm a squeeze.

“Remember what Neville said the other day?” she said thoughtfully. “That Malfoy’s nicer than he used to be. He said that he apologized for everything he’d done.” They all fell silent at this. Harry turned it all over in his mind. He still couldn’t imagine it, Malfoy apologizing.

“Mum should have warned us, though. Even if he’s not as bad as he used to be,” said Ron after a moment, and they all nodded in agreement at that.

It was close to midnight when they finally turned in, Charlie following Harry up the stairs.

“Sorry about our plan,” Harry told him. “Guess you won’t be visiting tonight after all.”

Charlie laughed. “Are you sure? Maybe Malfoy’d be into that sort of thing.” Harry felt his face flush in the darkness, glad that Charlie couldn’t see his face. That was an image he  _ really  _ shouldn’t think about. 

“Night, Charlie,” he said after a moment. There was a long pause, in which Harry thought Charlie might kiss him, but didn’t.

“Goodnight.”

* * *

Upstairs, the light was off in the small bedroom he shared with Malfoy. Harry tiptoed in carefully, but Malfoy rolled over when he shut the door. 

“They’re angry, aren’t they?” he said aloud in the darkness. "The Weasleys." Harry tripped over his shoes in surprise.  


“Damn,” he muttered. “Er—yes, I suppose so. Not all of them though—but yeah, some.”

“I told Andromeda they would be,” Malfoy said with a sigh. Harry heard him rustling around and wondered, quite accidentally, what Malfoy was wearing to sleep in these days. _Stop it,_ he chastised himself. _That thing between you and Malfoy is never happening again._ “She thought it’d be over," Malfoy went on. "Thought I should come.”

Harry didn’t say anything. In the darkness, he changed into his pajamas and got into bed. 

Neither of them spoke for a while. “Are  _ you  _ angry?” Malfoy said at last, just as Harry was about to drift off to sleep.

Harry sighed. “I don’t know,” he said honestly, and Malfoy didn’t respond.

Yes, the thing between them had to be over, Harry thought with certainty. It shouldn't have happened in the first place, and there was no way they could come back from all of this.  



	7. Chapter 7

It was odd to sit across from Malfoy at the breakfast table the next morning, and not only because it was Christmas Eve. For all the times they’d spent the night together, they’d never shared breakfast or even a pot of tea. It was decidedly unnerving, especially since Malfoy seemed to have decided to pretend that nothing was amiss at all.

“Pass the marmalade, Potter,” he said calmly, smirking as Harry proceeded to tip over his cup of tea in the process. Hermione gave Harry a rather pitying look as she cleaned up his second Malfoy-related spill in less than 24 hours.

“Better get it together before Quidditch, Harry,” Ginny said, pointing her fork at him. “I don’t want any klutzes on my team. Bill, you’re still in, right?

Bill shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Draco can have my spot.” Harry and Ron exchanged a glance as Bill calmly grabbed another slice of toast. “I told Victoire I’d take her sledding. Besides, I’m no Quidditch player. You’ll have more fun with Draco.”

Harry highly doubted that, but he didn’t argue. He busied himself by buttering his toast and pouring another cup of tea while Malfoy looked uneasily around the table. 

“All right,” Malfoy said. Perhaps he'd been waiting to see if anyone was about to protest. “I’ll play. What are the teams?”

“Me, Harry, and Charlie against you, George and Ron,” Ginny said promptly.

“Absolutely not.” George entered the room and glared at them all. He grabbed a piece of toast off Ron’s plate. “I’m not playing with—”

“How about this,” Charlie interrupted quickly as Malfoy’s eyes darted to George. “Seekers against non-Seekers? Me, Harry, and Malfoy—er, Draco, sorry—against George, Ron, and Ginny?” 

Ron snorted. “Sure you want to do that? Not a Chaser or Keeper amongst the lot of you? Your loss, Charlie.” He reached across the table and high-fived Ginny. George merely nodded, tight-lipped.

Harry looked at Malfoy and Charlie—his two biggest secrets, on one team—and didn’t know whether to laugh or protest. He stifled a sigh. “Works for me.”

* * *

After breakfast, the six of them wandered down to the Weasleys’ Quidditch pitch, brooms in hand. 

“A Nimbus 3500?” Malfoy said in surprise, looking down at the broom Ginny had handed him from the shed. “These are really nice brooms.”

George scowled at him. “Why? Surprised we impoverished Weasleys have brooms at all?”

Malfoy’s pale face flushed. “I didn’t mean—it’s just, these are really nice brooms, and you’ve got so many—”

“George is just teasing,” Ginny interrupted. George’s scowl deepened. “Nimbus gave the Harpies a full set of the new models this year, so we decided to scrap the old ones. I took a few home. Beats the old Cleansweeps we used to have, eh, Charlie?”

Charlie laughed and turned the Nimbus over so it gleamed in the crisp morning sunlight. “I miss my old Cleansweep,” he said fondly. “Helped us win a few matches against Slytherin in my day.”

As they walked, Teddy zipped along next to them on his toy broom, chattering to Harry and Malfoy, completely oblivious to the fact that the two men hadn’t exchanged a single word with one another. Harry thought wistfully of how nice Christmas might have been if it were the usual sort of affair; they’d have a morning game of Quidditch without worrying that George might kill Malfoy, then he’d have a nap with Charlie in the bedroom, and a game of Wizard’s chess with Ron in the afternoon. Now he wasn’t going to get any of it.

Once they were up in the air, Malfoy leaned forward on his broom and took off down the field, testing the limits of the Nimbus. Harry had to admit that he was still a good flyer. He watched Malfoy as much for his form and speed as for the way the bottom edge of his shirt rode up and exposed his lean, pale back to the cold winter air. Malfoy’s blonde hair glinted in the sunlight as he raced himself across the field, as fast as he’d ever been back at Hogwarts. 

Teddy cheered him on from down below, shouting and laughing words that they couldn’t hear, until Malfoy turned at the other end of the field and came racing back toward them, an exhilarated look on his face.

Harry sucked in a breath, suddenly remembering all the times he’d watched Malfoy fly when they were back at school, how familiar he was with that sliver of lower back and the way Malfoy’s body settled onto a broomstick, gripping the sleek handle between his thighs. Sometimes, when he'd reach for the Snitch, his body seemed to elongate as though he was an extension of the broom itself...Harry shook his head to keep his mind clear. The last thing he wanted to be thinking about today was Malfoy gripping  anything _ else  _ between his thighs. 

At least he hadn’t thought about that at Hogwarts—or had he? Merlin, Harry wondered with a start. Was I attracted to Malfoy even back at Hogwarts? It was an unsettling thought.

“Not bad, eh?” Ginny said, pulling up beside him.

Harry’s face grew warm. “What’s, er, what’s not bad?” he asked, his heart rate quickening.

“The Nimbus, of course” she said, gesturing toward Malfoy, who was already pulling up beside them. “I almost like the 3500 better than the new model. A bit less finicky on a dive.”

“Oh,” said Harry, his heart rate slowing. “Right.” He shook his head and looked away from them both, waving to Teddy below.  _ Keep it together,  _ he scolded himself.  _ And stop thinking about Malfoy’s thighs. _

Once they started to play, however, all of Harry’s anxiety and frustration about Malfoy, Charlie, Auror training, and everything else almost immediately dissipated. Flying always did that for him. If he hadn’t been so busy fighting the war, he thought he might have gone on to play professional Quidditch like Ginny, or teach flying, or anything other than becoming some sort of accidental lifelong crusader against the Dark Arts. He tried not to think about it. If it hadn’t been for the war, everything about his life might have been different. 

In the air, at least, he could shake it off. Up here, everything was just fine.

For a team of all Seekers playing against a professional Chaser, a Keeper, and a Beater, Harry, Charlie, and Malfoy made a decent showing. Harry had been somewhat concerned about George playing opposite Malfoy, but Ginny covered him, and Malfoy was a faster flyer than George if it did come to that. At least they weren’t playing with Bludgers, Harry thought as he watched Charlie block one of George’s throws. Three-on-three eliminated the Snitch and the Bludgers, making for a game that was more like Muggle basketball than anything else.

With Charlie as Keeper, Malfoy and Harry played off one another as Chasers. Harry was surprised to find that he remembered Malfoy’s flying style from Hogwarts, and was able to predict exactly what he was going to do when he had the Quaffle in hand. He knew that Malfoy was a fast flyer, but weak on a dive, and Malfoy knew that Harry was willing to take a risk to make a save. Without exchanging a word, they made several seamless plays. 

“Not bad, Potter,” Malfoy shouted after their first goal, his face breaking into a real, genuine smile. “You make a better Chaser than a Seeker!”

“Yeah right, Malfoy!” Harry yelled back, unable to suppress a grin. He’d never seen Malfoy smile like that in his life. “Did you ever even  _ see  _ the Snitch at Hogwarts?”

For as well as they played, the other three were unsurprisingly better; Ginny’s two years of professional experience and a lifetime of playing family games together gave them an edge that Harry, Charlie, and Malfoy just didn’t have, despite Harry’s rather intimate personal experience with them both. And Ron was still a surprisingly decent Keeper.

“Fuck yeah! Take that, Malfoy!” he crowed, making a save against one of Malfoy’s lobs of the Quaffle. “Who’s your King now? Say it!”

Harry barked out a surprised laugh, and even Malfoy grinned. “Never, Weasley!” he shouted. He and Harry flew down the field, away from Ron and Ginny’s rousing new rendition of Weasley is our King. 

* * *

By the time they were finished playing, it was past noon and Teddy had gone inside. They traipsed back to the Burrow, George in the lead, with Ginny and Ron still making up verses to Weasley is our King. Harry walked in silence next to Malfoy and Charlie, feeling keenly aware that the game was over and he didn’t know what would happen next.  


Charlie slapped them both on the back, letting his hand linger for just a moment on Harry’s shoulder. “Not bad for a team of Seekers, eh?” he said. “Malfoy, that last pass you made to Harry was excellent, went right over George’s head.”

“Thanks,” Malfoy said in surprise. His lips quirked up in an uncertain smile that made Harry feel even more unsettled. “You ah, you both played well, too.”

Without warning, George stopped in his tracks ahead, causing them all to stumble.Ginny let out a shriek of laughter that cut off the instant George turned around and she saw his face.  


" _Enough,_ ” he snarled. “It’s well and good to make nice in front of Mum, or to play a game of Quidditch—we did that at Hogwarts at least—but I can’t stand here while you all pal around with him—with  _ Malfoy _ . And you two!” George pointed at Ron and Ginny. “Don’t you remember where that song came from? Have you forgotten  _ everything _ ?” 

His face was as red and angry as it had been the night before. “Harry, I would’ve thought that you, at least…” George's voice trailed off as he glared at each of them in turn.  


Harry flushed red. “I haven’t forgotten,” he muttered, aware of Malfoy’s eyes on him. The shame he'd felt the night before came flooding back all at once.  


Ginny frowned at George. “None of us have forgotten, George. I expect Malfoy hasn’t forgotten, either, seeing as he's got a Dark Mark on his arm.” Harry sucked in a breath at the mention of the Dark Mark, but Ginny was unperturbed. She turned to Malfoy, her hand on her hip. “Malfoy, have you forgotten what you've done?” 

Malfoy stared at her in surprise. He was as red-faced as George, fists clenched, his expression a mixture of anger and embarrassment. Harry wondered if the polite facade he'd maintained so far would finally break.

“No,” he said last. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Good,” said Ginny, turning back to George. “George, it’s Christmas. Let it go for now.”

* * *

Back at the house, Harry took his turn in the shower. He squeezed his eyes shut against the hot steam, trying not to think about Malfoy—his Dark Mark or what he'd done in school, or the war, or how fucking sexy he was on a broom, which was almost the worst of all. He couldn't even be mad at Malfoy without those other thoughts creeping in. He glanced down at his half-hard cock and reached for it—but, no. He’d almost certainly think of Malfoy if he did that, and he almost certainly had to stop thinking of Malfoy.

He admired Ginny for standing up for the prat, but in the end, George was right, he decided. Malfoy had done a lot of terrible things and he, Harry, had looked the other way for too long. 

As he got out of the shower, he made up his mind to behave with polite, chaste tolerance toward Malfoy for the remainder of the holiday, or however long Malfoy intended to stay. It was already Christmas Eve, so with any luck, he wouldn't be around much longer. As tense and frustrated as he was, Harry was sure he could make it through the next couple days.  


* * *

But what he didn’t account for was the robe. When Harry returned to the little bedroom, shirtless and dripping wet from his shower, Malfoy was sitting on his bed wearing that damned plush white robe he always wore in the morning at his house. The one Harry never got to touch. 

“Fuck,” he muttered. Wasn’t it bad enough that he’d had to endure watching Malfoy play Quidditch, bending forward on his broomstick, smirking at Harry from across the field? He had to bring the damn robe, too?  


“Language, Potter,” Malfoy said, glancing up at him. He paused, his eyes running the length of Harry’s body. “You should use a drying charm,” he added, his voice catching slightly. “You’re dripping all over.”

“Malfoy, shut up.” Harry stared back at him. “We’re—we’re not friends, you know,” Harry added, frowning. 

Malfoy just looked at him. “I didn’t say we were.”

“Good,” said Harry. The robe wasn’t cinched quite tight enough, and he could see Malfoy’s collarbone, his smooth, pale neck. His face was slightly flushed, and his lips looked pinker than usual next to the pale white of the robe. Before Malfoy, he’d never thought of a bathrobe as being particularly sexy, but this one fit him perfectly, accentuated all the lean parts of his body that Harry liked best. 

They looked at each other for another long moment. Harry let out a long, slow, frustrated breath. And then, _ chaste tolerance _ be damned, he was striding across the room toward Malfoy, grabbing his hips, feeling how damn soft that robe was, running his hands over Malfoy’s arse until Malfoy moaned against him. He sucked in a breath as he pulled him close; He could feel Malfoy’s body against him, as hard and needy as Harry was. 

Malfoy breath was hot and heavy on Harry’s neck. He slid his hands around Harry’s waist and let Harry crush his mouth in a kiss. Harry’s knees felt weak, and he knew it was partially from playing Quidditch for the first time in too long, but partially from the heat of Malfoy’s body, the pine scent of his cologne, and his hands, sliding up and down Harry’s bare, damp back.

“This fucking robe,” Harry muttered. “I cannot believe you brought this here.”

“You like it?” Malfoy asked, amused. 

“Fuck, Malfoy,” muttered Harry. “It’s—it’s  _ ridiculous _ .”  And yet, he couldn’t get enough of Malfoy in it. He slipped his hands inside and slid them across Malfoy’s smooth chest the way he’d always wanted to do, until the robe parted and he could see all of Malfoy’s nakedness. He didn't know why, but this felt almost more obscene than anything they'd ever done before. “Fuck,” he muttered again. He ran a hand down Malfoy’s chest, making him shiver.

A voice in his mind told him to stop, that he’d only just decided that he wasn’t going to do this anymore—that this was never happening again —but he ignored it. He let Malfoy unzip his pants and he kicked them off until he was naked and Malfoy was wearing nothing but the open robe. Harry wanted to feel the whole of Malfoy’s body against him, every inch of the lean, taut body he’d watched fly across the Quidditch pitch only an hour before. He pulled Malfoy toward him again, their hard, naked cocks caught together between them. Malfoy moaned in his arms, and Harry reached between them, stroking their hard shafts together in one hand. They both gasped at the sensation, and Harry caught Malfoy’s mouth in a kiss. He thought he’d be undone by Malfoy’s pink cheeks, his continuous moans, his hard, throbbing—

“I’m—I’m going to—fuck,  _ Harry _ ,” Malfoy gasped, and he gripped Harry’s arm as he came undone. It was enough to push Harry over the edge too, and they clung to one another as Harry cried out against Malfoy's hot, wet mouth, come spilling over his hand.   


When it was finally over, they looked at each other, cheeks pink, lips swollen, bodies damp. Malfoy’s robe was askew, slipping off both shoulders, and he took a deep breath and sat down on the edge of his bed. 

Harry sat beside him, flushed and spent. The Quidditch match and George's tirade felt like days ago. Wednesday night at Grimmauld Place felt like  _ years _ . His arm brushed against Malfoy's, and for a moment, they leaned against one another, saying nothing at all.  


He’d go over to his side of the room in a minute. But first, he needed a minute to catch his breath.   
  



	8. Chapter 8

Harry didn’t know what to make of any of it. After sitting next to Malfoy on the twin bed for far longer than was necessary, he had gotten up and gone back to the shower for the second time that day, washing away the scent of Malfoy’s cologne and anything else that still lingered on his body. That was the second time in a week that he'd hooked up with Malfoy—once initiated by Harry, and once by Malfoy—and both times he hadn't had a single thing to drink.

It was unsettling, and worse, it was getting harder and harder to pretend that it would never happen again.

He didn’t know what Malfoy was going to do with the rest of the day, and he didn’t ask. After all the unpleasantness with George, Harry wondered if maybe Malfoy would decide to go home and leave Harry to the pleasant holiday he’d been envisioning for weeks. But he had to concede that it was unlikely. It sounded as though Malfoy didn’t have a home, at least not with his family, and had decided to stay put at the Weasleys, for better or for worse.

Feeling rather lost, Harry went down to the kitchen, where he found Charlie and Mrs. Weasley preparing dinner together.

“Hi,” he said, smiling at Charlie. “Room for one more?”

“Yes, please stay,” Charlie said imploringly. He pulled a face at Harry from behind Mrs. Weasley’s back. “Mum and I were just, er, catching up.”

“I was just asking Charlie when he’s going to settle down with a nice girl, maybe a little closer to home. The rest of the family’s all settled, except you, Harry, dear.” Mrs. Weasley bent to pull a cookie sheet out of the oven, and Charlie grimaced at Harry.

“Not everyone wants to settle down, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said carefully. “Not everyone’s like Ron and Hermione and the rest.” Charlie cast a grateful look Harry’s way, and Harry felt a mixture of affection and guilt flutter in his stomach.

“So I’ve heard.” Mrs. Weasley straightened up and looked disapprovingly at them both. “I’m going to go out and see what your father’s doing in the garage. Watch the cookies for me, Charlie?”

“Yes, Mum,” Charlie said dutifully. He let out an exhausted sigh the moment the kitchen door has closed. “And she wonders why I don’t come home more often.”

He came up behind Harry and wrapped his arms around his waist, resting his chin on Harry’s shoulder. Harry felt that pinch of guilt or nerves—or was it something else?—in his stomach again. He’d never felt uncomfortable around Charlie before. In the past, everything had been so easy, casual, and uncomplicated between them. He liked Charlie. He always had. It was just this whole thing with Malfoy that was ruining everything.

He wet his lips and tried to focus on what Charlie had just said. “I dunno, Charlie, maybe if you told her—”

Charlie smiled wryly. “Told her that it’s exhausting being here, or told her that I’m not about to settle down with a nice girl?” He put his hands on Harry’s hips and spun him around so they were facing each other. Harry let out a surprised laugh and squeezed Charlie’s arm.

“Either. Both,” he offered. He leaned back against the counter and found himself relaxing into the routine of the conversation. They’d had it so many times before. “She wouldn’t mind, you know. She just—”

“I know she wouldn’t mind. I just don’t want the whole family up in my business.” Charlie looked sternly at Harry. “Besides, you’re one to talk. When are you going to tell Ron and Hermione _anything_ about your life?”

 _You don’t know the half of it,_ Harry thought. “Soon,” he said. Charlie raised his eyebrows. “Okay, not soon. Never?” Charlie laughed, and Harry searched around for a change of subject. “So, er, Quidditch was nice this morning.”

Charlie gave Harry a knowing look at the subject change, and Harry grinned sheepishly at him. “Yeah, it was a good game,” Charlie replied. “Shame what George said afterwards, though. I’d almost thought we’d moved past all that unpleasantness with Malfoy.”

“Me too,” said Harry, and it was true. Things had been different while they’d been playing Quidditch. “When we were flying, I’d almost forgotten what a prat he is.”

“Was Malfoy all right?” Charlie asked. “Mum would be livid if she knew George was giving him a hard time.” Harry flushed. He realized that he didn’t know anything about how Malfoy was faring. Harry had pounced on him like some kind of sex maniac the moment he got out of the shower.

“I, er—” He was about to offer some sort of weak excuse for not knowing a single thing about Malfoy’s wellbeing, when the kitchen door opened and Malfoy himself entered.

Charlie took a smooth step back from Harry, who promptly turned red and knocked a cookie cutter off the kitchen counter.

“Oh, sorry,” Malfoy said, looking quickly between the two of them. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

He didn’t sound particularly sorry, Harry thought as he straightened up, cookie cutter in hand, though he did look altogether too curious for his own good. He’d changed out of The Robe and was wearing an impeccable pair of trousers and a soft blue sweater. Not a hair was out of place. Nobody would know he’d spent the morning playing Quidditch and—well, Harry didn’t need to think about the _other_ things Malfoy had done that day.

“I was just leaving,” Harry said quickly. “Good, er, good talk, Charlie.” He stepped quickly around both men and left the room, face aflame.

* * *

Try as he might, for the rest of the day he found himself unable to completely avoid Malfoy. He’d been stupid with Charlie in the kitchen, he told himself, embarrassed that Malfoy had seen them embracing one another, but not entirely sure why. He knew from experience that Malfoy was discreet and probably wouldn’t tell a soul—not that there was anything to tell—and yet it bothered him that Malfoy might think that Harry and Charlie were somehow _together,_ which they weren’t.

Not that it was any of Malfoy’s business either way.

He did spend a pleasant couple hours playing chess with Ron, Hermione, and Percy, but was left feeling rather bereft and lonely when they made excuses and disappeared off to their respective bedrooms before dinner.

Once again, Harry was alone, and wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He couldn’t go upstairs to the bedroom; Malfoy might be there, and he couldn’t go in the kitchen or the garage, because Charlie might be there, and for reasons Harry couldn’t quite pin down, he didn’t really want to see him, either. Then he heard the sounds of Teddy laughing in the living room. A feeling of relief and warmth spreading through his chest, he went in to see what his godson was doing.

The moment he had, he wished he hadn't. Malfoy was in there too (of _course_ he was), lying on the rug between Teddy and Victoire, a book open on the floor between them. Harry had never seen him look quite so...relaxed...except perhaps, when Malfoy was sleeping, or playing Quidditch, or when Harry was doing very specific things to him in the bedroom (all of which he’d seen already that day, he realized with a jolt).

But in any case, he’d certainly never seen Malfoy sprawled comfortably on the floor like this, seemingly without a care for his carefully pressed trousers or Teddy’s grubby left hand, which was resting on his arm. Victoire leaned against him on his other side, her white-blonde head on his shoulder. Teddy had changed his hair to a shade of blonde somewhere between Malfoy’s and Victoire’s, and laying there together, they almost looked like members of a family. Which they were, Harry reminded himself, at least for the most part.

The peacefulness of the scene didn’t last long once Harry entered. At the sight of him, Malfoy scrambled to sit upright, smoothing out his shirt and hair. “Potter,” he scowled. “Can we help you?”

“Sorry,” Harry said, as something like a laugh threatened to bubble up in his throat. “I’ll go. Enjoy your, er, storytime.”

Malfoy’s scowl deepend, but Teddy’s face brightened. “It’s okay, Harry!” he shouted. Malfoy wrinkled his nose at the boisterousness, and Harry, again, stifled a laugh. “You can stay! Draco’s reading to us. Draco, do the dragon—”

“No,” Malfoy said quickly, and Harry looked at him curiously.

“--voice for Harry, Draco!” Teddy finished. “You’ve got to, he’ll love it. Harry loves dragons. Draco, did you know he beat one when he was in school? In the tournament!” Harry grinned at Teddy, whose hair was rapidly becoming black and curly.

“Yes, I’d heard about Potter’s dragon,” Malfoy said drily. “And no, Teddy, I’m not doing the, ah, _voice_ now.”

“No, please, Malfoy,” Harry said pleasantly. “I want to hear it. Is it very good, Teddy? Victoire?”

“It’s the _best,”_ Victoire said enthusiastically, and Teddy nodded in agreement.

Malfoy gave Harry a long suffering look, his cheeks an even deeper pink. Then,without warning, he turned to Teddy and let out a low, throaty growl that startled Harry quite as much as the children.

“Watch out, boys and girls!” Malfoy growled menacingly. “Or I will _eat you up_!”

Victoire and Teddy shrieked with laughter while Harry stared at them, opened-mouthed. Stiff, rude, buttoned-up _Malfoy_ was not only sitting on the floor with children, he was also pretending to be a dragon for them. It was the sort of thing that, well, _Charlie_ would do...but somehow it was infinitely more delightful when it was Malfoy. Harry didn’t really understand it. Maybe it was the rather endearing way Malfoy’s cheeks turned pink when he was embarrassed...but no, that couldn’t be it either. Harry swallowed. Not entirely, at least.

“Very good, Malfoy,” he said when he’d finally found his voice. “A little on the nose though. Draco the dragon?” Malfoy’s name-- _Draco--_ rolled easily off his tongue. Harry wondered if he’d ever said it before, and what it would be like to say it again.

Malfoy flushed under Harry’s gaze. “Yes, well. Only for the children,” he said, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. Harry smiled back at him, feeling a sudden urge to lounge on the floor with the three of them and listen to the rest of the book.

“I’m not a _child_ ,” Teddy said importantly, tugging the book away from Malfoy.

“Me either,” said Victoire.

“No, you’re not.” agreed Malfoy, looking away from Harry at last. He lowered his voice to the same deep growl and chomped his teeth at them. “Because you’re _dragons_!”

The children shrieked with laughter, and Harry turned away to leave them to it, a smile spreading across his face.

“We’re never speaking of this again, Potter!” Malfoy called after him as the living room door swung shut. And this time, Harry did laugh.


	9. Chapter 9

Harry was more than a little surprised when Malfoy followed him up to their shared bedroom after dinner that night. He paused when he entered, looking at Harry as though he wanted to say something, but Harry didn’t invite any sort of conversation.  _ Communication’s not your thing,  _ Charlie had said the other day, and maybe he was right. 

Harry and Malfoy had been courteous to one another today, sure, but Harry still didn’t know how to converse with him. Everything had been easier when they didn’t know anything about each other. Now Harry knew where Malfoy worked, that something was amiss with his parents, that he’d apologized to Neville, and most recently (and shockingly) that Malfoy was good with children. Teddy all but worshipped him. It was hard to reconcile this new information with the Malfoy he’d always known, or at least the one he  _ thought  _ he knew. 

In any case, Harry didn’t acknowledge Malfoy’s questioning gaze. Malfoy went over to his things and began rifling through them, and Harry turned back to a thick envelope he’d received from his senior partner while they were playing Quidditch that morning. He let out a huff of annoyance and pulled out a note from his partner, ignoring Malfoy’s curious glance. The note had come with a stack of documentation outlining a mission he’d shadowed the week before.

_ Proof these and have them back to me by the New Year. Sooner if you can.  _

“Merlin, it’s Christmas Eve,” he muttered irritably. Malfoy looked back up at him.

“Just...Auror stuff,” Harry said unhappily. “Can’t even get away for one lousy—” Embarrassed, he shut his mouth. He hadn’t meant to tell Malfoy all that.

Malfoy was still looking at Harry, but he didn’t say a word. Harry jammed the letter and the documents into his overnight bag, his pleasant mood from earlier all but shattered.  _ Can’t get away from Malfoy, can’t get away from the bloody Aurors... _ He sighed. He’d actually come up here to change his clothes before dinner, but now Malfoy was over there, lounging on his own bed and paging through a book. Harry thought about going to change his clothes in the bathroom for some privacy, but decided against it. What the hell, he thought after a moment. It wasn’t anything Malfoy hadn’t seen before. He’d seen it all that very morning, as a matter of fact.

Harry peeled his shirt off, shivering in the drafty bedroom. He was suddenly aware that Malfoy watching him.

“What?” he asked irritably, tossing his t-shirt on the bed next to that bloody envelope. “I’m just  _ changing _ .”

“Merlin, you’re in a mood,” Malfoy said, exasperated. “Are you always like this?” Harry didn’t answer. Malfoy looked at his irritated face and sighed. “I’m looking at you because you look good, you idiot. I’m attracted to you.”

Harry stared at him. “You’re  _ attracted  _ to me?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Why do you think I’ve been sleeping with you for this long? It certainly wasn’t for your personality. And honestly, I thought your whole Savior complex might be a, ah, compensation for other... _ deficiencies _ .” He looked pointedly at the front of Harry's’ trousers, and Harry’s face reddened. Malfoy smirked. 

“This is the worst compliment I’ve ever received,” he announced to the room. Malfoy rolled his eyes. It was also the longest conversation they'd ever had. “And I’ll have you know that I was certainly not  _ compensating  _ for anything.”

“Well I know that  _ now _ ,” said Malfoy, the hint of a smile on his face. Harry couldn’t believe it. Was Malfoy  _ flirting  _ with him? It was unsettling, but he also had to admit that he rather liked it. “And besides, you’re attracted to me, too.”

“I am not,” Harry lied. He felt as though his face was on fire. He realized with some surprise that Malfoy might be trying to distract him from the contents of the envelope. He didn't really know what to think about that.  


Malfoy laughed, but not unkindly. “You absolutely are.” He came over and sat on the edge of Harry’s bed and stared blatantly at Harry’s chest, and the trail of dark hair leading into his trousers. Harry shivered. “You like my hair,” Malfoy continued. “My chest. You  _ love  _ my thighs.” 

Harry fidgeted uncomfortably. He did like Malfoy’s thighs...they were pale and firm and sensitive and touching them felt, well, intimate. “I like the sounds you make when I touch them,” he said, hoping his voice wouldn’t catch. He was gratified to see that Malfoy’s cheeks had reddened, too. Malfoy reached up and undid the button on Harry’s increasingly tight trousers, looking at him expectantly. Harry nodded, and Malfoy tugged down the zipper. Harry felt his knees weaken, and he took a deep, shaky breath in anticipation of whatever Malfoy was about to do. 

And then there was a knock on the door.

“Fuck,” Malfoy muttered. “Can’t you get a moment of peace in this—”

“Shut up,” Harry hissed, clapping a hand over Malfoy’s mouth. “Yes?” he called.

“Harry? Draco? Are you in there?” Molly called through the door. “We’re about to put Celestina on!” 

Harry groaned. “We’re here,” he called back. “We’ll come down.”

“Celestina?” Malfoy said, perplexed. “Warbeck?

“Unfortunately, yes,” said Harry. “And we’d better go now or Molly will break the door down and drag us down there herself.” He’d have laughed at the confused look on Malfoy’s face if he wasn’t so bloody frustrated. Regretfully, he removed Malfoy’s hand from his trousers and zipped up his pants. Malfoy sighed and handed Harry his shirt. He pulled it on over his head, willing his body to cool down. He grimaced at the thought of trying to listen to _A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love_ with his trousers feeling this tight and Malfoy and all the Weasleys in the room.  


“I’ll see you down there,” he told Malfoy, and headed for the door.

“Potter,” Malfoy called after him. “Wait.”

Harry turned back. Malfoy was still sitting on the edge of Harry’s bed, looking at him with some uncertainty. Despite his pink cheeks, he still looked far more crisp and presentable in his blue sweater and grey trousers than Harry felt. He reached up self-consciously and tried to smooth down his hair. “What?”

Malfoy hesitated. “What’s the deal with you and the older Weasley?”

Harry looked back at him in surprise, his heart suddenly thumping loudly in his chest. “Bill?” he asked, feigning confusion. “Sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”

“No,” said Malfoy impatiently. Harry watched him run a hand through his hair. “Don’t make me admit to knowing their names. The other one. In the dragon hide jacket. Muggle jeans.” Harry raised an eyebrow at him.

“Not that I was looking,” Malfoy added hastily. “So what’s the deal?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Harry, turning back toward the door, his stomach churning. “There’s nothing going on with me and Charlie.”

“Have it your way, Potter,” said Malfoy, standing up. “I don’t care either way. Maybe it's a Christmas tradition here, snogging all the Weasleys in the kitchen.”

“Piss off, Malfoy,” Harry said, swallowing hard. “We weren’t—we weren’t  _ snogging _ .” He and Malfoy looked at each other, and Harry felt a keen desire to open the door and let in some air. Maybe then he’d be able to breathe. “I’m going downstairs.” 

He turned to leave for the second time, but felt a hand on his shoulder. 

“Malfoy, just let it—” Before Harry could finish his sentence, Malfoy had spun him around and pressed him up against the door, one hand on Harry’s chest, the other at his waist. Inches apart, they met each other's’ gaze, and Harry’s heart rate quickened. He had only a moment to consider the intensity in Malfoy’s grey eyes, and then Malfoy’s soft lips were on Harry’s, his tongue snaking into Harry’s mouth. Harry’s eyes flew open in surprise for only a moment, but then he relaxed into everything Malfoy was doing.

It wasn’t a romantic kiss—they’d never had one of those—but it was deep and passionate and left Harry feeling woozy and breathless. He groaned into Malfoy’s mouth, his earlier arousal flooding his body, his hands grasping at Malfoy’s soft blue cashmere sweater until it was twisted up in his fists.. Malfoy was hard and needy against him, but this wasn’t about that, at least not entirely. Malfoy was putting everything he had into snogging Harry senseless in a way they’d never done before. Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever kissed  _ anyone  _ like this.

The kiss only lasted a moment or two, but Harry had nearly forgotten about Celestina Warbeck by the time Malfoy pulled away, leaving Harry leaning against the door, gasping, flushed, and wholly unsatisfied. They stared at each other, breathless.

“See you downstairs, Potter,” said Malfoy quietly. His ears were bright red, and his swollen lips almost looked bruised next to his pale skin. Harry very nearly lurched forward to kiss them again, but looked away instead, finding the doorknob behind him.

This was  _ Malfoy _ , he reminded himself as he fled down the stairs. Malfoy. But it was getting harder and harder to remember why he should care about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said that this would be finished by Christmas, but that's probably not going to be the case anymore. I'll still be posting regularly, but this story is getting a bit longer than I originally thought it would be. More to come soon! Thank you so much for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

When Harry awoke on Christmas morning, he was tired from being up late the night before. He’d originally hoped that he and Malfoy would be able to cut Celestina short and disappear upstairs—much like he and Charlie had the year before—but he’d been pulled into a game of Exploding Snap with Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and the children, and hadn’t talked to Malfoy all night. 

Malfoy, for his part, seemed to be trying to keep a low profile. Harry had seen him talking to Andromeda and Molly for quite a while, and later, he and Ginny seemed to be having an intense conversation about the future of the Holyhead Harpies Quidditch division. He carefully avoided George, who sipped Firewhiskey in a chair in the corner and seemed to be avoiding everyone but Percy and Mr. Weasley. Harry usually quite liked to spend time with George, but this year, he felt a stab of miserable guilt every time they spoke, so this year, Harry avoided him too.

Harry didn’t talk much to Charlie either, save for one exchange that left him wanting to crawl out the window. Charlie came up to the table where they were playing Exploding Snap and put a hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“Hey, Harry. I’ve been meaning to show you the, uh, new dragon hide boots I got this year,” he had said quietly, as Ron’s cards exploded and Teddy shrieked with laughter. “If you’ve got a moment, I can show you now. Upstairs.” He had squeezed Harry’s shoulder and glanced pointedly at George, his roommate, who was deep in conversation with Percy, a full glass of Firewhiskey in his hand

Harry’s stomach had twisted; he’d known exactly what Charlie had in mind. Normally, he’d have been grateful for the excuse to sneak off, but this time it just didn’t feel right. Without thinking, he glanced at Malfoy, who was still talking to Ginny on the other side of the room. Malfoy’s eyes darted away the moment Harry looked up; had he been watching?

“Maybe later,” Harry had told Charlie, grinning at Teddy’s antics to hide his discomfort. “I’m going to, ah, stay downstairs for a while.”

Disappointment had crept into Charlie’s eyes for just a moment, but then it was gone. “All right then. Enjoy your game. I’m going to go get another drink.”

Harry carefully avoided making eye contact with either Charlie or Malfoy for the rest of the night, and Malfoy had been asleep by the time Harry went upstairs, tipsy from too much Butterbeer and irritable from a long conversation with Ron about Auror training. He’d half hoped that Malfoy would be up to distract him from it, like he had about the letter earlier that day, but maybe it was for the best that he was already asleep.

And now it was Christmas morning, and Malfoy’s bed was already empty and carefully made. For a brief, insane moment, Harry considered going over there and pressing his face into the pillow, inhaling Malfoy’s fresh, piney scent, and pulling back the covers to muss up the bed Malfoy had so carefully made.

“Get a grip,” he muttered out loud, and leaving his own bed an unmade mess, he went downstairs to celebrate Christmas.

* * *

At first, it seemed as though Christmas might be relatively normal after all. Charlie sat next to Harry at breakfast and chatted amiably with him as though Harry hadn’t rejected him the night before. It was easy to avoid eye contact with Malfoy, who was sitting next to an excitable Teddy and Victoire at the other end of the table. It almost felt as though yesterday’s kiss hadn’t happened at all, which also meant that it would probably never happen again. Maybe Malfoy thought it was a mistake, or maybe he thought it wasn't a big deal, just like any of their other Friday night hookups.  


Harry couldn’t tell if he felt relieved or frustrated about this.

After breakfast, they exchanged gifts; for one odd moment, Harry had felt concerned that Malfoy might not have anything to open, but of course he had gifts from Andromeda and Teddy, and Molly, who had knit him a scarf in Slytherin colors. Harry hid a smile as Malfoy awkwardly stuttered his thanks.

“At least it’s not a sweater,” Ron whispered to Harry, who was jolted out of staring at Malfoy's flushed face. Ron was already sporting his own new maroon sweater, a large R resplendent on his chest. “But there’s no way he’s going to wear it.”

“Not a chance,” Harry agreed.

The rest of the gifts were unwrapped quickly. Harry’s stomach sank as he opened Ron and Hermione’s gift, a set of books about the history of the Aurors, but he eagerly watched Teddy unwrap the gift he’d bought last week in Diagon Alley: a brand new, fully-functional, child-sized broom. Teddy shrieked with excitement and dragged Harry outside to practice on it as soon as they were finished opening gifts. 

“All right,” Harry told him, helping him get settled on the broom. “This might look like a children’s broom, but it’s just the size--this one will really flies, and not just a couple feet off the ground, either. You’ve got to be careful.”

“How high can I go?” Teddy asked eagerly.

“Let’s start with just making some laps in the yard,” Harry told him. “See if you can get as high as that tree over there.” He showed Teddy how to speed up and slow down safely, and let him loose into the yard. It wasn’t long before the door opened and Hermione came outside, too.

“Careful, Ted,” Harry called, as Hermione came up next to him on the deck. “Remember to lean back when you’re coming in for a landing!” he called to Teddy as he flashed a grin at Hermione. "Yes, that’s it exactly!” 

“You’re good at this,” Hermione said, leaning against the deck rail. She was bundled up against the cold, a mug of hot chocolate clutched between mittened hands.  


“What, shouting?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow at her. "Can I have a drink of that?"  


Hermione laughed and handed him the mug. "I suppose you are rather good at shouting, though I meant that you're good at teaching, and making Teddy feel important. Like he's a grownup.”

Harry’s cheeks flushed at the compliment. “He wants to learn so badly. Wish I had more time with him.”

Hermione nodded. “Maybe once you’re finished with Auror training.”

“Maybe.” It was unlikely, though, he thought with a frown. Once he was a full Auror he’d have real caseloads and would be working all hours of the day and night. 

They stood in silence for a moment, watching Teddy make laps around the yard. Hermione was chewing her lip as though she wanted to say something.

“What is it, Hermione?” Harry said, half-teasing, half-exasperated. “I know you’ve got something to say. It's why you came out here, isn't it?"  


Hermione laughed halfheartedly. "It’s just—are you all right, Harry?” she asked. “I mean, personally. Are you doing okay?”

Harry's stomach sank. “What do you mean?” he asked carefully. “No higher than the fir tree, Ted!”

“I mean...you just seem different lately,” she said earnestly. “Not like you’re hiding something, exactly, but you seem distant. Worried. You’re all right out here with Teddy, but the last few days, and at the pub last week—I don’t know, Harry. Is it Ginny? I saw you looking at her last night.”

Harry swallowed hard. He hadn’t been looking at Ginny, but he  _ had  _ been looking at Malfoy while the two of them talking. _Stupid,_ he told himself. _Stop looking at that prat. Stop thinking about him. Stop_ snogging _him._  


“I’m fine,” he said quickly. Hermione gave him a knowing look. Harry sighed. “It’s not Ginny. It’s just…” He paused, and for a moment, he considered what it would be like to tell Hermione everything; about the Aurors, and the Muggle bar, about Charlie and Malfoy. About the nightmares, and the loneliness of Grimmauld Place. But he couldn’t do it. Hermione had it all figured out, just like the rest of them. She and Ron were happy. They loved their jobs. Somehow, everything was easy for them, and somehow, it wasn’t for him.

He chewed his lip and watched Teddy accelerate to just over the top of the fir tree. He took a deep breath. “I have nightmares sometimes,” he said finally. “About the war.” He wasn’t sure why he’d chosen that to start with, but he felt a rush of urgent relief as he said it.

Hermione looked at him in surprise. “Nightmares?”

“Not like the ones I had during the war,” he said quickly. “I guess these are normal nightmares. But I don’t sleep well. I take—I take too much Dreamless Sleep.” He waited for Hermione to reprimand him for this, but she didn’t.

“I have nightmares too,” she said after a moment. He turned to her in surprise.

“You do?”

She nodded. “I dream of Bellatrix sometimes, and what happened at Malfoy Manor.” Harry sucked in a breath; of course she did. He opened his mouth to say something—the time they’d spent at Malfoy Manor weighed heavily on him, too, and not just because of Malfoy himself—but she shook her head and continued talking. “And my parents; I have nightmares that they don’t recognize me, that they don’t remember who I am.” Her eyes filled with tears, and Harry reached out to grip her arm tightly. 

“They do remember you, though,” he said softly. “And they’re _alive_. You did the right thing.”

“They remember me now,” she agreed. “But for a long time, I wasn’t so sure that they would.” She hesitated. “Sometimes, the nightmares are so bad that Ron can’t wake me.”

“I didn’t know,” Harry said quietly.

She shrugged. “We’re all struggling, Harry. Ron misses Fred terribly—it’s why he loves Auror training so much. It gives him a purpose and something to keep fighting for even though the war's over.” Harry nodded; he’d long known this about Ron, even though it wasn’t true for himself. 

Hermione squeezed his hand. “The war was awful, and it really wasn’t that long ago. I mean, look at George. He can hardly stand to be in the same house as Malfoy. And do you blame him?”

Harry swallowed hard. “No,” he said at last. “I don’t.” And he didn’t. What he didn’t know was how he could justify his empathy for George with his own complicated feelings about Malfoy. He didn’t know what Hermione would say about that. 

When he turned back to her, she was still looking at him, her brow wrinkled with concern. “The nightmares aren’t all that’s going on, are they?” she asked. Harry sighed.

“No, they’re not,” he admitted. But he couldn’t bring himself to elaborate. When he didn’t say anything else, Hermione sighed and reached up to pull him into a hug. 

“You should do what will make you happy, Harry. Don’t beat yourself up about the rest.”

He nodded. He only wished he knew what that meant. “I’ll try.”


	11. Chapter 11

Harry was feeling a bit better by the time they went inside. But in his relief in talking with Hermione and delight in teaching Teddy to fly, he had rather forgotten to account for the presence of everyone else in the house.

Outside of the Burrow, he could chat pleasantly with Hermione while Teddy flew around in the fresh falling snow. Inside of the Burrow, it was pandemonium. The uneasy truce that had built up between George and Malfoy over the past few days seemed to have reached its breaking point over the course of Christmas afternoon. The first thing they heard when they entered the house was George shouting at Malfoy, drunk and slurring his words.

“I still don’t understand why he’s _here!_ None of you see the problem with a Death Eater drinking eggnog in our living room on Christmas Day?

“George, that’s enough,” came Mr. Weasley’s voice. “Let’s all just sit down—”

“Oh no,” Hermione muttered, exchanging a look with Harry. Harry squeezed her shoulder and pushed past Teddy to go into the other room. It was as bad as he expected. George was standing in the center of the room with a glass of eggnog tipped precariously in one hand, and the other pointing at Malfoy. Half the Weasleys were crammed into the room, looking uneasily from one to the other. Charlie caught Harry’s eye and shook his head unhappily as if to say _What did anyone expect?_

Harry glanced at Malfoy; his cheeks were red and his eyes were fixed on George. He was gripping his glass so tightly that Harry thought it might shatter into a thousand pieces.

Harry didn’t know whether he felt more sorry for Malfoy or for George.

“People _died_ fighting this scum!” George shouted. “ _Our_ people!”

“He’s right,” Malfoy said abruptly. “I—I should go.”

“No,” Harry said suddenly, aware that all heads had turned to him in surprise. He was surprised at himself, for that matter. Wasn’t Malfoy leaving exactly what he’d wanted just a day or two ago? But he moved to stand between the two of them anyway. “Malfoy’s not responsible for the whole of the war, George. He’s not...he’s not _Voldemort._ ”

Saying the name was a mistake; half the room flinched, and Malfoy’s lip curled into an unpleasant, angry sneer. Harry swallowed hard.

“Come off it, Harry,” George said, pushing around him. “What, you’re mates with this ferret now?”

“No,” said Harry awkwardly, not looking at Malfoy. “But it doesn’t matter. It’s just...it’s Christmas. He’s Teddy’s cousin. We can...we can be nice.”

“He’s also Lucius’ son, and Bellatrix’s nephew,” George retorted. “And a git in his own right, and _that’s_ why he shouldn’t be here. His own family fucking hates him—”

“George, please,” Mrs. Weasley said faintly, but everyone ignored her.

“My family hates me too!” Harry said hotly. “And you invite me here every year—”

“You don’t have a Dark Mark on your arm, Harry! Don’t compare yourself to slime like him!”

“He’s not—” Harry began, feeling more confused than ever.

“I don’t need your help, Potter,” Malfoy interrupted, his trademark sneer now firmly etched across his face. Harry faltered; Malfoy looked nothing like the man who’d read books to Teddy and Victoire the day before, nothing like the man who’d snogged Harry up against the door yesterday. He looked more like himself than he had all weekend, and Harry hated the sight of it.

“He’s free to hate me if he wants,” Malfoy spat. “I’m leaving. This has gone on long enough.”

“Leaving?” Teddy was standing in the doorway, looking at them, Hermione behind him. “But it’s Christmas, Draco!”

“Sorry, Ted,” Draco said, his face softening slightly at the sight of the little boy. “It’ll be better this way.”

“No, don’t put yourself out on my account,” George interrupted sarcastically. “I’ll go round to Angelina’s family. She’ll be pleased and there won’t be any Death Eaters there.”

And with a _pop_ , he was gone. Mrs. Weasley promptly burst into tears, and Mr. Weasley patted her back gently.

“I’ll still go,” Malfoy said again. He glanced at Harry for the first time since his outburst, and Harry looked away. “Really, this has gone on too long. I shouldn’t have come.”

“No, please stay,” Molly said through her tears. “We can’t—we can’t go on fighting the war forever, can we? I thought that if you came, we could move past it—for Teddy, for Andromeda—”

Malfoy clenched his jaw; if he had any response to this, he didn’t say it. His eyes scanned the crowd. Hermione nodded mutely, but most of the rest of them looked away. Harry could feel Malfoy’s eyes on him, but he didn’t meet them. Did he, Harry, want Malfoy to stay?

The answer, he knew, was _yes_. But the real situation was far more complicated.

Teddy quietly took Malfoy’s hand in his own. “Please stay, Draco” he echoed. Malfoy looked down at him, blinking rapidly. “I want you to stay.”

* * *

And to Harry’s surprise, Malfoy did stay. After a rather subdued dinner and dessert, the family settled into the warm, homey living room. Molly’s eyes were red-rimmed and her face pale, but she seemed determined to have the same Christmas they’d always had, rolling out the drinks cart and playing Celestina Warbeck’s newest album in the background.

Harry watched Malfoy refill his fire whiskey twice and his punch once. For the most part, he talked quietly with Andromeda in the corner, gesturing to the door, to the Weasleys, and once, even, to Harry. Andromeda put a sympathetic hand on Malfoy’s arm, listening. Eventually, she took Teddy by the hand and brought him upstairs to bed, leaving Malfoy standing alone in the corner.

Harry hesitated for a moment. Maybe Malfoy really did still hate him; maybe he regretted everything that had happened between the two of them that weekend. Maybe they'd go their separate ways after this Christmas, and none of it would ever happen again. But Harry had to know. He walked over to the drink cart.

“Malfoy,” he said quietly, taking a glass of punch for himself.

“Potter,” said Malfoy. “Look if you’ve come here to—to gloat—” If he wasn’t completely drunk yet, he was close to it; Harry could smell the alcohol on his breath.

“To gloat?” Harry asked incredulously. “About what?” _I came to ask if you’re all right. I came to ask why you_ kissed _me yesterday, and why on earth you’ve stayed here when everyone hates you._ “God, you’re a prat.”

“Cheers,” Malfoy said with a sigh, and they both drank deeply from their glasses. Malfoy swayed a little on the spot. Harry stopped himself from reaching out to steady Malfoy; if he touched him, he wasn’t sure if he’d kiss him or punch him. Or both.

“So why are _you_ here, anyway, Potter?” Malfoy asked at last. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here any more than you were expecting me.” It took Harry a moment to realize that Malfoy meant _here, at the Burrow_ rather than _here, having drinks._

Harry took another sip of his punch. “If you’d known I was going to be here, would you not have come?”

Malfoy didn’t answer. Harry sighed. “The Weasleys are my family. I told you, I come here every year for Christmas. I thought you knew that.”

“Why would I know that?” Malfoy asked. “You didn’t mention it—”

“Mention it _when_?” Harry whispered, annoyed. “All those times that your cock was in my mouth, or all the times when you were shoving me out the door in the morning?”

Malfoy’s cheeks turned pink. Harry’s words hung in the air; their usual crass banter felt out of place here, but Harry still felt a familiar sort of self-satisfaction at having rustled him up. “Okay, _fine_ ,” Malfoy said. “But I—You’re broken up with the girl Weasley, so why are you here? You have your own family, don’t you?”

Harry snorted. “The Dursleys?”

“I don’t know, Potter. The Muggles who raised you.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t exactly get on,” said Harry. “We don’t speak. We didn’t even speak when I lived with them, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh,” said Malfoy, swallowing hard. Harry looked curiously at him.

“I thought you knew,” he said quietly. “It was in the papers. You commented on it, when we were at school.”

“I didn’t know it was true,” Malfoy said. “Or, rather, I didn’t know how _much_ of it was true.”

“I guess we have that in common now,” Harry said. “Crappy families.” He cringed after he said it and waited for Malfoy to protest, to be offended, or at the very least, to laugh derisively at the idea that he and Harry could have anything in common, but Malfoy only nodded and reached to refill his Christmas punch.

Harry cleared his throat.“Malfoy,” he said with some hesitation. “I, er, don’t think you should drink that.” They looked at each other, the rest of what Harry wanted to say hanging in the air between them. _You’ve had enough, and it won’t help anyway._

Malfoy opened his mouth as though about to leave a cutting retort, but thought better of it. “You know what,” he said, setting down the glass. “You’re probably right.” They looked at each other uneasily.

“Look, I’m glad you came,” Harry offered. Malfoy snorted.

“No, really,” said Harry, shrugging. “I, er—I just, I am.”

“Eloquent as ever, Potter,” Malfoy said with a sigh. They fell into an oddly companionable silence, and Harry looked around the room. Mrs. Weasley was laughing while Mr. Weasley sang along to Celestina, and around the room, he could hear various snippets of conversation. Ginny held court in one corner, waving her arms in a elaborate demonstration of a new Quidditch play. On the other end of the room, Hermione, Bill, Percy, and Audrey were deep in conversation about the new Ministry policy on goblin relations. And yet there was still a tension in the air; Molly’s laughter was rather too shrill to be genuine, and here and there, he could hear George’s name mentioned in a hushed voice.

Harry turned back to Malfoy. “Listen, do you want to go upstairs?” he asked. Malfoy raised an eyebrow.

“Not like that,” Harry said quickly. “Just, you know, make a pot of tea and get out of here for a bit?”

Malfoy glanced around the room and nodded. “All right,” he agreed. “That sounds good.”

* * *

Harry pretended that he didn’t notice Charlie’s eyes following him out of the room, and went into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. By the time he had levitated it up the stairs, Malfoy was there, lounging on his twin bed. Harry levitated the tea tray to Malfoy’s beside table and hesitantly sat down beside him, his heart beating maddeningly loudly in his chest. Malfoy cleared his throat.

“Thanks for stopping me from having more to drink,” he said quietly. “I, er, I’ve probably been having too much lately.” Harry didn’t say anything, and Malfoy chewed on his lip in that un-Malfoy-like way that he'd been doing lately. “The alcohol just makes me feel worse. I should know better.”

“Oh,” said Harry, unsure how to respond. He was surprised at this admission from Malfoy, surprised they’d found themselves in this sort of conversation at all. But the alcohol seemed to have loosened Malfoy’s inhibitions, making him willing, even eager, to talk.

“How do you do it?” Malfoy pressed. “Spend all this time with someone else’s family? It’s maddening.”

Harry considered this. “Maybe it’s easier for me,” he said finally. “Since I don’t have a family to miss. Someone else’s family is all I’ve ever had.”

“Maybe,” said Malfoy, and they lapsed into silence, sipping their tea. Malfoy closed his eyes and leaned against the wall behind him. Harry found himself captivated by Malfoy’s long, delicate lashes resting on his pale skin. He was gratified to notice that here, in their room, Malfoy seemed comfortable for the first time all day.

“All right,” Malfoy said after a moment. He opened his eyes and looked right at Harry. “It’s your turn. Tell me something.”

Harry chewed his lip thoughtfully, unnerved by Malfoy’s intent gaze. He cast about for something to say that wasn’t about Weasleys or their miserable families. “I hate the Aurors,” he said finally, surprising even himself with the intensity of the statement. “I don’t want to do it anymore.”

Malfoy looked at him in surprise. “Are you going to quit?”

“I can’t quit,” Harry said, annoyed. “I’m Harry bloody Potter. Besides, what else would I do?”

Malfoy shrugged. “Dunno. Something you like. You’re a good flyer—you’re good with kids—”

“That’s what Hermione said,” Harry said, feeling a bit thrown that Malfoy had noticed the same thing. “Not that I told her about the Aurors. I haven’t told anyone about that.” He frowned at Malfoy. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“All right,” said Malfoy. “How about you and Charlie?”

Harry groaned and flopped back against Malfoy’s pillow, closing his eyes. When he opened them, Malfoy was looking down at him, a curious expression on his face. Harry closed his eyes again.

“You were right about Charlie,” he said at last.

“I _knew_ it,” Malfoy crowed. Harry felt his ears turn red, and Malfoy laughed. “Spill, Potter. How many of the Weasleys have you fucked? Wait—Merlin, I have so many questions—have all of your sexual experiences been _in this room_?”

“Keep your voice down!” Harry muttered, casting a Muffliato. “And no, they have not, as you bloody well know,” he added. Malfoy laughed again, the sound sending a pleasant shiver down Harry’s spine. He suddenly wanted to tell Malfoy _everything_.

“The thing with Charlie—it's past tense," he said, glancing quickly at Malfoy. He couldn't tell if Malfoy looked relieved or not at that statement, but as Harry said it, he felt sure that no matter what else happened, he wouldn't be hooking up with Charlie again. "It was after I first broke up with Ginny,” he continued. “She was traveling with the Harpies, so I came here for Christmas. I wasn’t going to, but Molly insisted—”

“What a surprise,” Malfoy said drily. Harry gave a half laugh.

“Molly means well. It's like, she wants everyone to be happy, and doesn’t care how many people have to be miserable for that to happen.”

Malfoy snorted at that, and Harry closed his eyes, remembering how things had been after splitting up with Ginny. He'd felt so lost, so confused. It wasn't all that different than how he felt now, he realized grimly.

He sighed. "Anyhow, that first night, everyone had gone to bed except for Charlie and I—”

“Merlin,” said Malfoy, shaking his head. “Didn’t waste any time, did you?”

Harry shrugged. “I had too much to drink—sort of like tonight—and I was feeling guilty about Ginny... I was so tired from Auror training...anyway, we got to talking about the breakup, and I'm not sure why, but I told Charlie that I was bi.”

“Bi?” Malfoy said in surprise.

“Is that a problem?” Harry asked, suddenly feeling uneasy. He hadn’t planned for this part of the conversation, he realized. It had just come out.

“No,” Malfoy said quickly, shaking his head. “I just didn’t know. I guess I thought you broke up with Ginny because you realized you liked blokes instead, or something—I didn’t mean—”

“It’s all right,” Harry said. “We never talked about it, did we?”

“No,” Malfoy said, and he offered Harry a tentative smile that made his stomach flip over. “I guess we didn’t. So what happened with Charlie?”

Harry grimaced. “We talked for a while, finished a bottle of wine, and when we got back upstairs to our room—this room—he kissed me. We were drunk and it was stupid, but we’ve been, ah, hooking up, I guess, ever since then, whenever we’re both home. Molly kept rooming us together—the poor lonely single blokes, you know."

“Whenever you're both home,” echoed Malfoy.

Harry shrugged in the darkness. “It’s the only home I’ve got, and, it’s why I can’t tell anyone about Charlie. Nobody knows.” He chewed his lip, wondering how much to disclose. “I don’t think anyone in the family even knows that Charlie's gay. Keeps to himself in Romania and doesn’t come home much. I like being part of the family, but it’s a lot for him, being here. The nosiness, the gossip, you know.”

“I can imagine," Malfoy said, shaking his head. Harry wondered how much Malfoy's family knew about his life. He couldn't imagine Narcissa and Lucius knew about the Muggle bar or the men—like Harry—that their son brought back to his flat.

"So Charlie came home to see you, and now you’re in here with me?” Malfoy asked after a moment, raising an eyebrow at Harry.

Harry grimaced. “Something like that."

“Should I leave?” Malfoy asked suddenly. “I could go, if you wanted to be with him.”

“No,” said Harry, and he was surprised to find that he meant it. He’d rather be exchanging barbed comments and secrets with Malfoy than getting drunk and making out with Charlie.

They lapsed into silence again, Harry still lounging sleepily on Malfoy’s pillow. Just when Harry thought the conversation was over, Malfoy spoke again.

“I’m sorry I came to your flat on Wednesday,” he said quietly. “I know it’s not the thing...it’s not what we usually do.”

“It was fine,” Harry said quickly, surprised. “I didn’t protest much, if you recall.”

Malfoy smiled wryly. “No, I suppose you didn’t. It’s just—I’d received an Owl from my mother that day.” Harry remembered the carefully folded parchment, and how unnerved Malfoy had looked when he slid it into his pocket. “She, ah, told me not to come home anymore. Not to come home for Christmas.” He looked down at Harry, who didn’t say anything. “Andromeda told you?”

He shook his head apologetically. “Molly.”

“Of course she did.” Malfoy rolled his eyes, but he didn’t seem mad. “How is it that _you_ manage to keep so many secrets in this family?”

“Dunno,” Harry said with a shrug. “A lot of close calls. So why did your mother—”

“Ah, right.” Malfoy picked up Harry’s legs and draped them across his own, leaning against the wall behind him. “I had told her that I don’t want to see my father again. She visits him in Azkaban, you know, and I hate—I hate visiting him there.” Harry didn’t know what to say, but it didn’t seem to matter; Malfoy, for whatever reason, wanted to talk. “She got upset,” he continued. “Talked about how much Father had done for the family, how he was _wrongfully imprisoned_ —” Harry bristled slightly at this but Malfoy, if he noticed, didn’t react. “And I lost it. I told Mother that he deserves to be there, that we _all_ deserve to be there—” 

“You don’t,” Harry said quickly. “You were a kid—and your mother—”

Malfoy shook his head. “You’re too forgiving for your own good, Potter,” he said reprovingly, but some of the intensity had gone from his voice. “Mother didn’t appreciate my comments, told me I needed to be loyal to the family or I could get out.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said quietly.

Malfoy sighed. “It was a long time coming, if I’m being honest. But I was upset when she reacted that way. I guess I thought she’d at least understand, even if she didn’t agree with me. But she’s loyal to _him_ and to the old ways after all.”

“And all this just happened on Wednesday?”

Malfoy nodded. “I didn’t know what to do with myself. It’s not—it’s not the sort of thing I can talk about with Blaise or Pansy—so I don’t know, I came to you.”

“We didn’t talk about it at all,” Harry said regretfully. “I should’ve—”

Malfoy snorted. “Talking wasn’t exactly a thing we did then.”

But they were talking now, Harry thought, and it was nice. He shifted slightly, and Malfoy looked down at him, resting his hands on Harry’s legs.

“Besides, the distraction was nice,” Malfoy continued, and he actually squeezed Harry’s thigh, just above his knee, as he said it. A shiver went down Harry’s spine. “Anyway, when I left your place in the morning, I went to see Andromeda, and that’s when she invited me here to ruin your Christmas.”

”It hasn’t been all bad,” Harry said, his stomach still doing somersaults from Malfoy having squeezed his thigh. _Get a grip._ He'd managed to have an entire conversation without snogging Malfoy so far; he wasn't about to ruin it now. “But I’m sorry about George.”

Malfoy sighed again. “That’s the thing—he’s not wrong, is he? I did a lot of horrible things—no, don’t look at me like that, I did do horrible things, regardless of why—and frankly, I’m surprised _any_ of you have forgiven me. I told Andromeda it was a mistake for me to come here, and I expected it to be much worse. The only good thing is that I finally apologized to some of them. Granger, in particular. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley—I think that’s why they were so firm about not throwing me out.”

“You did?” Harry said in surprise. So it wasn’t just Neville. Malfoy really did want to make amends.

“Yeah,” said Malfoy, shrugging. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is, though,” said Harry softly. Malfoy was chewing his lip again, looking down at Harry with those grey eyes and flushed cheeks. It was easy for Harry to forget that he'd ever hated Malfoy at all.

“Listen,” Malfoy said in a rush. “I ought to have done this long ago, but with the way things started up between us—”

“At Hogwarts, or at the bar?”

“Both, I suppose.” Malfoy said, wrinkling his nose. “Just—let me finish, would you?” Malfoy took a deep breath. Harry waited, a nervous prickle in his stomach. "Potter, I’m sorry,” Malfoy continued. “I did a lot of terrible things when we were at school—in addition to what I did during the war—and I’m sorry for all of it.”

Harry looked up at him. He’d known the apologize was coming, but hearing it out loud disarmed him completely. He wondered what Malfoy would do if he took his face in his hands and kissed him—but now wasn't the time for that.

“I’m sorry too.” Harry pushed himself up to sit cross-legged on the bed so that he was eye level with Malfoy. “I almost killed you in the bathroom that time. You still have the scars on your chest. I've seen them.”

Malfoy waved a hand dismissively. “You didn’t know what the spell did—and anyway, I was going to cast a fucking Unforgivable on you, what were you supposed to do?”

Harry shrugged and, without thinking it through, stuck out his hand for Malfoy to shake. Malfoy looked down at it in surprise. “Let’s leave it in the past, okay?” Harry said.

“You forgive me?” Malfoy asked. He turned so he was facing Harry, his grey eyes flashing with intensity in the dim light. “I—I have to hear you say it.”

“Yes,” Harry said. “I do.”

In the growing darkness, Malfoy took Harry's hand and shook it. "This was probably a long time coming," Malfoy said quietly, his palm soft and smooth against Harry's own. Harry didn't say anything, but he gave Malfoy's hand a squeeze and didn't let go for a long moment.

It wasn't what he'd expected, Harry thought, but it was a perfect ending to an otherwise imperfect Christmas Day.

  



	12. Chapter 12

When Harry woke the next morning, Malfoy, as usual, was gone, his twin bed neatly made up, with no evidence that he and Harry had lounged on it last night, doing nothing more than talking until it was quite late. Harry smiled into his pillow. The whole thing felt like some sort of dream—a good dream, for once. He hadn’t had a nightmare the whole time he’d been at the Burrow.

Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed and took a deep breath. As nice as their conversation had been, he could barely keep up with the intensity of this...this  _ thing... _ with Malfoy. Six months ago they’d gone from not having seen each other in years to sleeping together on a semi-regular basis. And now, in just three days, they’d gone from never speaking to staying up all night sharing their deepest secrets. 

And Harry couldn’t speak for Malfoy, but he, personally, and got to a place where the touch of Malfoy’s hand on his bare arm could send him into a nervous fluster.

So while the whole thing felt a bit like a good dream, he also felt like he was well and truly fucked.

He stood up and dressed and looked around the room. It seemed oddly barren, and that’s when he realized that all of Malfoy’s things were gone.

* * *

Harry took the stairs two at a time on the way down, panic rising in his chest. Maybe it had all been too much for Malfoy—the talking and the near- snuggling , not to mention the days on end forced to room with Harry...maybe he’d left, maybe it really was never going to happen again and he, Harry, had caused it.

But when he burst into the living room, Malfoy was there, reaching under the Christmas tree to retrieve the scarf he’d received from Mrs. Weasley the day before.

“Oh. Hello,” he said, looking up at Harry, his cheeks slightly flushed. “I—I didn’t want to wake you.” Harry watched in surprise as Malfoy wound the chunky green scarf around his neck. It looked terrible next to his carefully pressed blue shirt, but he didn’t seem to mind. “The others are in the kitchen, having breakfast, and—”

“Where are you going?” Harry interrupted. He gestured to Malfoy’s overnight bag, resting at his feet. “Are you leaving?” He paused, chewing his lip. “Was it something about...last night? I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” Malfoy said quickly, looking away from Harry. “Nothing like that. I talked to Mrs. Weasley. I’m going to go so George can come back.” Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Malfoy raised a hand and shook his head. “No, it’s the right thing to do. He’s allowed to be upset with me, and I shouldn't be here if it ruins his Christmas. It was nice of her to invite me, but it’s time for me to go. I've got to write to my mother and figure some things out."  


Harry understood. Malfoy suddenly put a hand on his arm, a tentative touch that felt neither platonic nor sexual, but somewhere in between.

“Potter— _ Harry _ —“ Malfoy said quietly. Harry’s heart leapt in his chest. _Harry._ “I, er," Malfoy paused, looking helplessly at Harry, as if he wanted to say something but didn't quite know how.  


Harry took a deep breath. They'd talked so much last night, and yet there were so many things that Harry still wanted to say to Malfoy, and so many questions he wanted to ask. But instead, much like first night at the bar, Harry leaned forward and kissed him.

Except this time, the kiss was soft, gentle, and careful. Harry had kissed Malfoy dozens—hundreds?—of times in the past several months, but this was a new, intentional, _daytime_ sort of kiss. When Malfoy didn't pull back, Harry slid an arm around his waist and pulled him in closer, reveling in the feeling of Malfoy's soft pink mouth opening for his own, the scratchy wool scarf brushing against his neck, Malfoy's hand coming to rest gently on Harry's hip. Harry was so caught up in his elation that Malfoy was kissing him back that he didn't hear footsteps outside the door. 

Worse yet, he didn't hear the door opening until it was far too late.

“Oh, my God.  _ Harry _ ?”

Harry froze in place, his eyes widening to meet Malfoy's. With his arms still around Malfoy’s waist, Harry turned to the door. Ron was standing there, and behind him, Ginny and Bill. And, worst of all, Charlie.  


“Oh.” The elation he'd felt from kissing Malfoy crashed down around him, turning to a churning sort of misery in his stomach.  


“Hello,” he choked out. Ron’s face was blank and Ginny was gaping; Bill looked on in surprised amusement, and Charlie’s eyebrows had disappeared under his shaggy hair, his face an expression that Harry couldn’t quite read. All of them were staring.

“I should go,” said Malfoy, flushing. “Potter was just—I mean,  _ I _ was just—” He looked from Harry to the others. “Fuck. I’’m sorry.”

“Wait,” Harry said. “Mal—Draco!” 

But Malfoy was shaking his head, avoiding Harry’s gaze. "No, Potter," he said quietly. "I'm leaving." He picked up his bag and pushed through the crowd of Weasleys at the door, his ears red. 

When he was gone, the others turned back to look at Harry. He felt bereft, alone, and more confused than ever, standing there in the center of the room.

“What the  _ hell _ , Harry?” Ron said, aghast. “You and...Malfoy? Is this a joke?”

Harry opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He couldn’t think of anything to say at all. He was torn between wanting to die, right there in the living room, and wanting to chase Malfoy down and kiss him some more. What had it  _ meant  _ for him to leave like that?

“I don’t think it’s a joke, Ron,” said Charlie at last, looking at Harry. 

“No.” Harry sighed, looking Charlie in the eyes. Without waiting for any more answers, Ginny turned to leave. 

Harry sighed. ‘“It’s...complicated...but it’s not a joke."

* * *

Harry didn’t know what to do, so he went upstairs to pack his things. He'd go home, he decided. Go home, and clear his head. And then, maybe then he'd go find Malfoy. Or would an owl be better? He sighed when he heard a knock on the door.

“Come in,” he called. Ron entered, his ears red and a pained expression on his face. He raised his eyebrows at the sight of Harry’s bag open on his bed.

“Leaving?” 

“I dunno,” Harry said. “I guess.”

Ron nodded and sat down on Malfoy's bed, opposite from Harry. "I don't blame you," he said, shaking his head. "But you can't leave before you do an _enormous_ amount of explaining. You've left a right mess downstairs—Ginny’s told Mum what, er, well, what we saw—don’t worry, I’ve held her off so far—but Harry, what the hell is going on?”

Harry grimaced. “A lot, I guess.” He didn’t elaborate, and Ron gave him an exasperated look that was rather reminiscent of Hermione. 

“Merlin, Harry, if you’re going to make me ask questions, I don’t even know where to start. So you’re—Malfoy—are you  _ gay _ ?” Ron asked. “Did you  _ ever  _ like Ginny?”

“No," Harry said with a sigh. Ron raised his eyebrows. "Wait, that’s not what I meant," Harry closed his eyes in frustration. “I mean,  _ yes _ , I liked Ginny. But no, I'm not gay. I'm bi.” He sighed, and sat on the edge of the bed next to Ron. “But I’ve been seeing men, lately.”

“Oh,” said Ron. He didn’t say anything for a while, his brow furrowed. Harry didn't say anything either, waiting nervously for Ron to think it all through. “I guess it makes sense," he said after a moment. Harry stared at him in surprise.  


“It does?”

“You were always noticing things about blokes,” Ron said thoughtfully. “Things I never did. Like Diggory or Zabini...you’d look at them, I dunno. In a way I never really understood.”

Harry was quite sure his face was on fire. “We were so young,” he said, embarrassed. “I just...I mean, I liked girls too, so I didn’t even consider it till later—”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “When you were with Gin, you mean?”

Harry sighed. “We were so young,” he said again. “I never had time to be a grownup. I just went right from Hogwarts to the war, to Ginny and Auror training—I never considered whether I really wanted _any_ of it.” His heart sank, suddenly remembering about the documents he had to proof for his senior partner within the next few days.  


Ron blinked at him. “Just don’t tell me you’re quitting the Aurors, okay?” He laughed as though it were a joke, and Harry smiled wryly. “And Malfoy? “How on  _ earth  _ does he come into this?” Harry grimaced, and Ron gave him another Hermione-like look. “You know I have to ask.”

Harry sighed. He felt like he’d talked more in the last couple days than in the rest of his life combined. “Ran into him at a bar a few months ago. I dunno...it’s complicated. We’ve been having, well, hate sex, I suppose. For months.”

Ron gawked at him. “ _Hate_ sex?”

Harry shrugged. “We were drunk just about every time,” he offered miserably. “Then he’d kick me out the next morning. We kept saying we'd stop—we hated each other, after all—but it just kept  _ happening _ .” He put his head in his hands, wondering what Malfoy was doing right that moment. Maybe he was panicking at having been caught, like Harry, or maybe, Harry thought with a sinking feeling in his stomach, he was regretting the whole thing.  


Ron shuddered. ”You always did have that weird... _thing_...with him. Watching him, following him...” 

Harry closed his eyes, mortified, and Ron patted his back sympathetically. “No, I’m serious, Harry. God, honestly, so many things are making sense right now. Did you have a crush on him at  _ school _ ?”

“No! At least...I don’t think so.” Harry’s face burned. “I’m er, sorry I didn’t tell you any of this. It just all felt so bloody weird.”

“I get it,” said Ron. “Wish you’d ever told me about the liking blokes bit, but I understand why you didn’t tell me about Malfoy. Although he’s not that bad, honestly. I didn’t mind having him around. You know he apologized to Hermione?”

“Yeah, he told me,” Harry said with a sigh. “I didn’t know he’d be here, you know. I was furious at first. We never talked much before this weekend. It was mainly...other things,” he admitted, blushing furiously. 

Ron grimaced. “Listen, I know I’m not all that observant—I’m no Hermione—but it didn’t look like hate sex to me, what was going on in the living room.”

Harry sighed and put his head back in his hands. “No, I don’t suppose it was.”

* * *

By the time Ron left the room a half hour later, they’d agreed that it might be best for Harry to leave, if only for his own peace of mind. Ron agreed to talk to the others for him, and Harry decided he’d write Ginny a letter. It might be easier that way, for both of them. 

There was one other person that he wanted to talk to, however. He found Charlie in the broom shed, carefully pruning the broken branches of his old school Cleansweep, well-worn and well-loved next to the shiny new set of Nimbuses. 

“Charlie,” he said quietly, setting his bag down in the doorway.  


Charlie turned and gave him a tired smile. “Harry. I was wondering if you’d find me here. Leaving, then?"  


"Yeah," he replied. "I'm sorry. I’ve turned Christmas into a colossal mess.”

“Nah, Mum did that when she invited Malfoy,” Charlie said, and Harry forced a smile.

“I didn’t know he’d be here. I really was looking forward to spending time with you,” he said honestly.  


Charlie nodded. “Me, too. You do have a history with him, then? Aside from being school rivals or whatever, I mean.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, blushing. “It wasn’t...I mean...it’s not anything, exactly. Not really.” He trailed off awkwardly, unsure what  _ it  _ really was, or what he wanted it to be.

Charlie’s brow furrowed.. “I wondered, when I saw you together...but I thought you’d have told me if you were...seeing him?” Harry shook his head. “Sleeping with him, then?” Harry nodded miserably, and to his surprised relief, Charlie laughed. “You still could have told me, you know.”

Harry sighed. “What did you say the other day? Communication’s not my thing.” 

Charlie smiled. “To be honest, I’ve liked that about you, Harry—you mind your business better than anyone else in this family. Maybe _too_ well." Harry smiled in spite of himself, and Charlie squeezed his arm. "Listen, don't worry about any of it. You and I—well, you were well within your rights to do whatever it is you do with Malfoy.”

“I’m sorry all the same," said Harry. "I didn’t think—I didn’t mean for anything to happen here at the Burrow.” He hadn’t meant for anything to happen with Malfoy  _ ever _ , and now look where they were. “And listen, Charlie, I talked to Ron—he understood, said he’d talk to the rest. Not just about Malfoy, but about me being bi, I mean.” He chewed his lip and looked back at Charlie.

Charlie sighed. “I know what you're getting at, Harry. And I never doubted that they’d understand. I just am not interested in having that conversation with them about  _ me _ .” Harry nodded. “And I hope it works out, you and Malfoy,” he added.

Harry’s face flushed. “There’s nothing going on with me and—” he began, but Charlie shook his head.

“All I’m saying is that you deserve something more than a romp in a twin bed at Christmas, Harry. Whether it’s with your childhood rival or your best friend’s older brother. But if you’re ever in Romania, look me up,” he added, looking fondly at Harry. “I don’t know if I’ll be coming around here again for a while. Maybe next Christmas. The family—it’s a lot.”

Harry nodded. It was funny how the very thing he liked about the Weasleys—the noise, the nosiness, the care—was what Charlie couldn't take.

“Thanks, Charlie,” he said quietly, and Apparated home.


	13. Chapter 13

Harry was a wreck. He’d nearly Apparated to Malfoy’s flat six or seven times in the first 24 hours after going home from the Weasleys, nothing stopping him but his own misery and doubts over what Malfoy really wanted. Was the kiss really what Harry had imagined it to be? Or was it the same sort of kiss they’d always had, just made a bit more awkward by everything they’d learned about one another the night before?

Harry didn’t know. In the end, he didn’t do anything at all. He closed off his Floo in case of any errant Weasley visitors, and settled down with a pot of tea to work on his Auror assignment. The documentation took him through weeks of December stakeouts and and the tailing of a suspected Death Eater, ending with a dangerous intervention that had resulted in three Aurors being taken to St. Mungo’s, and the suspected—now confirmed—Death Eater having escaped. 

Just going through the documents left him with nightmares that kept him tossing and turning all night long. Harry laid in bed for hours the next morning, staring at the ceiling and wondering how everything had gone so bloody wrong in every facet of his life.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, and reached for a sheaf of parchment and a quill. He wrote six or seven versions of a letter to Malfoy, but in the end, settled on what he hoped was a mixture of apologetic and casual, something Malfoy could respond to however he liked.

_ Draco, _

_ Sorry about what happened the other day. Dinner on Friday?  _

_ -Harry _

He watched the sky eagerly for his owl’s return, but when she flew through his open window an hour later, there was no reply in her beak, and nothing came in the days that followed, either. Was this how Charlie had felt when Harry didn’t respond to his letter? Harry felt a burning sense of worry mixed with remorse. If communication wasn’t Harry’s strong suit and it wasn’t Malfoy’s either, this might never work. 

* * *

Despite his lack of optimism, he Apparated to the Muggle bar on the Friday before he was due to return to training. He scanned the crowd and even checked the bathroom, but Malfoy wasn’t there.

“Looking for your blonde friend?” the bartender asked, as Harry sighed and settled onto a bar stool. “You gonna snog him or kill him this time?” 

“Snog, hopefully,” Harry said miserably. “But I’d settle for a talk.”

“Well, I haven’t seen him,” the man replied, looked sympathetically at Harry. “I think you’re well rid of him, personally—unpleasant bloke, isn’t he?—but good luck to you, mate.”

“Thanks,” Harry said with a sigh. He drained his drink and left. 

* * *

The only good thing to come out of the Christmas break was that Ron and Hermione now knew a bit more of what was going on in his life, and he had somebody to talk to about it—well, most of it, anyway. He couldn’t tell Ron how much he dreaded Auror training, but he could tell him about Malfoy, and as miserable as Harry was about the whole thing, it was a nice change.

“So have you seen him?” Ron asked eagerly when he and Harry first arrived back at work after the New Year. “Heard back, at least?”

“No,” said Harry glumly. “I dunno. Maybe nothing’s changed, you know? Maybe I’ve built up everything that happened over Christmas in my head, and Malfoy thought nothing of it. It’s like, either things are going to go back to the way they were—”

“Hate sex,” Ron said, shaking his head.

“Yeah,” Harry said, flushing. “Which seems unlikely, now. Or Malfoy’s angry about the whole thing and it’s all over.” 

There didn’t seem room for anything in between. And Harry knew now that he didn’t want anything in between. He wanted Malfoy. No, not Malfoy, he thought with a sigh. He wanted  _ Draco _ \--the Draco he’d played Quidditch with and who had read books to Teddy and who he’d stayed up talking to all night long. He wanted the Draco he’d kissed in the Weasley’s living room on the day after Christmas. He couldn’t pretend otherwise any longer.

“I dunno, mate,” Ron said sympathetically. “It’s all a bit out of my league. You need Hermione for this sort of thing.”

“Maybe,” said Harry with a sigh. 

But the first week back at Auror training after Christmas kept them on their toes, and he had very little time to talk to relationship strategies with either Hermione or Ron. There was paperwork to catch up on, stakeouts to sit through, and endless drilling of curses and defensive maneuvers to practice. With so many other things going on, he was reminded how small the thing with Malfoy had been back before Christmas. It really had been just a Friday night fling and nothing more. No wonder they'd continually been able to convince themselves that it might never happen again.  


“Harry, you’ve got to get your head in the game!” Ron hissed one afternoon at training after he’d disarmed Harry for the fifth time in an hour. “Seriously, you’re gonna get held back if this keeps up. I can’t keep going easy on you every time Robards is watching.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry said, blinking rapidly to try and clear his head. “I haven’t been sleeping well lately.” It was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth, and they both knew it. He wasn’t surprised when Hermione stepped through his Floo later that night.

“Ron says you’re having nightmares again,” she announced, climbing out of the fire. Harry jumped up to greet her; he’d been sitting on the couch, nodding off while unsuccessfully studying his copy of  _ Advanced Defensive Tactics. _

“Hello, Hermione,” Harry said with a frown, helping Hermione to her feet. “Talking about me, were you?”

“We’re married, you know,” she said apologetically. “Besides,  _ someone’s _ got to look after you if you’re not going to do it for yourself. Ron says you’re distracted, your curses are missing their marks,  _ and  _ he told me that Malfoy still hasn't answered your letter.” Hermione wandered into Harry’s kitchen and began opening cupboards and running the tap. She put on a pot of tea and turned to Harry expectantly, waiting for answers.

“It wasn’t really a letter, what I sent him,” he said, embarrassed. “It was just...an invitation to have dinner. If he wants.”

Hermione sighed. “Maybe he needs a little more time, Harry. Or more than an invitation. He might be worried that the Weasleys will tell people what they saw—”

“They wouldn’t,” Harry said quickly.

“You and I know that, Harry, but does Malfoy?” Hermione asked patiently. 

“Oh.” Harry frowned. “I guess not.” He felt a swoop of dismay in his stomach; of course Malfoy would be concerned that the Weasleys might not be discreet. He pictured Malfoy at home alone, pacing his flat and checking the papers every day for some miserable headline about the youngest of the Death Eaters snogging the Boy Who Lived.

“Shit,” he said, his stomach sinking even further. “I should’ve said something to reassure him, I guess. I thought that he might be angry, but I didn’t even think that he might be worried about  _ that _ .”

“Well, it’s not too late,” Hermione said consolingly. She set a steaming mug of hot tea down in front of Harry. “I don’t know what to tell you about the nightmares, though. I don’t suppose you can ask for some time away from training?”

“We just had Christmas break,” Harry pointed out. “And I can’t very well be taking off any time I’m not sleeping well. I’d be off all the time.” 

Besides, it wasn’t just the nightmares, he thought glumly. He hated even being at Auror training; it was in turns incredibly boring or incredibly stressful, and everyone expected him to do well just because he was the Boy Who Lived. He’d been fantasizing more and more about quitting ever since Christmas. But it wasn’t as though there was anything else he could do.  


“Sorry,” Hermione said with a sigh. “But I think you should try Malfoy again. It might make you feel a bit better, at least. Why don’t you do it now? Write him another letter.”

“All right,” he agreed. Hermione put a piece of parchment and a quill in front of him, and he began to write.

_ Draco- _

_ I told myself I’d leave it be, but I can’t stop thinking about the way we left things at Christmas. I’m sorry. I know this isn’t how we usually do things, but I liked talking to you at Christmas, and I’d like to see you again, and not just at the bar. I understand if that’s not what you want, but I had to tell you anyway. _

_ If you’re worried about the Weasleys, please don’t be. They aren’t angry, and they won’t tell anyone anything. I’m sorry, again.  _

_ I hope to hear from you soon. _

_ Harry _

“It’s perfect, Harry,” Hermione said encouragingly. “If he doesn’t respond, well, you’ve done all you could. The ball’s in his court.”

“The Quaffle’s in his hand,” Harry corrected, forcing a smile. And he had to admit that he did feel a bit lighter as they watched the little owl fly off into the night.

* * *

He didn’t expect a reply, at least not one that evening, so he was surprised when his owl returned shortly after Hermione had left, a letter in her beak. Harry opened it eagerly, ran his fingers over Draco’s perfect penmanship, and began to read.

_ Dear Harry- _

_ Thank you for your letter. I’m sorry I didn’t respond to your first one. Things have changed so much that at first, I didn't know what to say. But now I think I do.  
_

_ Despite everything, I did have a good time with you at Christmas, but after the Weasleys saw us, I realized that I’ve made a mistake. There’s a reason I spend my time in Muggle London and avoid Diagon Alley, you see. I’ve spent the last few years trying to keep a low profile, and being with, well,  _ you _ —in any capacity—could undo everything I’ve worked for, no matter how much I enjoy it. I hope you can understand that.  _

_ I’m sorry to say this—I really am—but please don’t write to me or come to my flat. I need to work through some things with my mother, and I need some time to think it all through. _

_ -Draco _

Harry read the letter three times. Then, swallowing down his disappointment, he flipped the parchment over and wrote two words in return.

_ All right. -H  
_


	14. Chapter 14

A week passed, and then a month. Harry did his best to go about his usual business; he even went back to the Muggle bar once or twice on his own. Malfoy, of course, wasn’t there, and Harry hadn’t expected him to be. He had a few drinks and danced with a couple Muggles, but ultimately went home alone. He told Ron about it the next day, part of his New Year’s resolution to be more honest and open with his friends than he had been in the past.  


“Well I think it’s great that you went out at all,” Ron said encouragingly. “I know you’re feeling badly about the whole Malfoy thing, but finding someone new--or trying--well, it’s not a bad thing, is it? Besides, things are picking up in training, aren’t they? Can you believe we’ll be real Aurors soon?”

“I can’t,” Harry said, trying to sound more excited than he felt. Ron patted him on the back and picked up his wand so they could practice more drills.

Training  _ was  _ picking up, and as much as Harry disliked it, it did keep him from pining too much over Malfoy. It didn’t do much for his sleepless nights, however. By the time January ended, he was taking Dreamless Sleep three or four nights a week, which caused Hermione to fret, but for which Harry could see no alternative.

“If I don’t sleep, I’m hopeless, Hermione!” he told her, frustrated. “The other day I couldn’t even do a Patronus.”

“Patronuses are advanced magic, Harry,” she said consolingly. “Ron says that even the senior Aurors struggle with them sometimes.”

“I’ve been doing them since third year,” he retorted. 

“All right, all right,” she said, shaking her head. “Listen, not to change the subject, but I’ve been meaning to ask; did you see that Malfoy was in the  _ Daily Prophet  _ last week?”

“He was?” Harry said, Auror training all but forgotten. He hadn’t had time to read the paper in weeks. “Why?” 

“Nothing major,” she said quickly. “But here, see for yourself.” She rustled through her bag and pulled out a copy of the paper, folded over to page four. 

_ Malfoy Family Dines in Public _

_ The elusive Malfoy family was seen dining together on Friday evening. While Death Eater Lucius Malfoy is still imprisoned in Azkaban for crimes committed during the Second War, his wife Narcissa and son Draco, rarely seen publicly, enjoyed a quiet meal and conversation in Diagon Alley. _

Harry swallowed hard. “This is  _ news _ ?” he asked. “Merlin, imagine what they’d say if they knew where he spent Christmas.” Or who’d he been sleeping with before Christmas, Harry thought miserably. Maybe Malfoy had a point about Harry having the potential to mess up his quiet life.

He traced his finger over the photo that accompanied the short article. Malfoy was leaning across the table, saying something to his mother, who had a small smile on her face. As he watched the moving photograph, Narcissa placed her hand gently on her son’s arm.

“I thought you’d want to see it,” Hermione said apologetically. “It looks as though they are getting along, doesn’t it?”

Harry nodded and handed the paper back to her, unsure how to feel about that. “Yes,” he agreed. “It does.”

* * *

As January turned to February, Harry was falling into a comfortable routine with his friends. In the months that he’d been sneaking around and sleeping with Malfoy, he’d seen them less and less. Now, though he still occasionally went back to the Muggle bar on the weekends, he was spending more time with Ron and Hermione, and even Neville. When Ginny was in town, she joined them as well. Harry was relieved that she had been more than than understanding about both his sexuality and his dalliance with Malfoy after they’d exchanged a few letters and had a chance to talk.

“I was surprised, of course,” she told him. “When I saw you two kissing, I mean. But it is what it is, isn’t it? You and I weren’t good together, and I want you to be happy, Harry. We’ll both find someone else some day.”

And so, aside from the occasional excitements and misery that Auror training brought to his life, Harry’s routine began to settle down, different, but in many ways better than it had been before Christmas. One morning in mid-February, however, he was surprised to receive a letter from a large and rather cranky Hogwarts owl. He looked immediately at the signature. It was from Professor McGonagall.

Intrigued and a bit nervous, Harry quickly read the note.

_ Dear Mr. Potter, _

_ I hope that this letter finds you well. I am writing to inquire if you would be interested in a position we have available here at Hogwarts. After many years of service to the school, Madam Hooch has decided to retire at the end of this school year, and I find myself in need of a flying instructor. _

_ I am aware that you are finishing Auror training this spring, Potter, and are about to begin what promises to be a long and illustrious career in fighting the Dark Arts. I don't mean to presume to suggest that you would want to quit. However, I have been informed that you may be interested in a change of pace, and, though I have always believed that you would make an excellent Auror, we would also be happy to welcome you to Hogwarts as staff. _

_ Please write to let me know if you would be interested in an interview. If you are not interested, I would like to hear from you all the same, and please do consider stopping by Hogwarts sometime to say hello to your old Head of House. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Minerva M. McGonagall _

_ Headmistress _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry _

By the time Harry finished reading the letter, his mouth had dropped open in surprise several times. He read it over again and again.  _ I find myself in need of a flying instructor...I have been informed that you may be interested in a change of pace...we would be happy to welcome you to Hogwarts as staff.  _

His first reaction was one of confusion. So few people knew that Harry was unhappy with the Aurors...Hermione had an inkling, he knew, but she thought he wanted to be an Auror, and he didn’t think she’d speak to McGonagall without letting him know. Or perhaps Neville, teaching Herbology at Hogwarts, had mentioned something…The only other person who knew was Draco, and it couldn’t be him, Harry thought, perplexed. 

Of course, it didn’t matter who had spoken to McGonagall, Harry thought, reading the letter over for the fourth time. The real question was whether he would ever consider such a thing. He had never considered that teaching flying might be an option for him. It was hardly a prestigious career; not the sort of thing that one turned down a coveted position in Auror training for...and certainly not the thing that one would have expected from the Boy Who Lived. He felt a small amount of regret, thinking it over. If he was to have a career in flying, he’d have thought it would be playing professionally, like Ginny...not teaching like Madam Hooch.  


And yet...he he couldn’t help but think of how natural and wonderful it felt to teach Teddy how to fly. He imagined himself coaching Quidditch teams and helping first years learn to properly mount their brooms. He’d always thought Hogwarts needed a proper coaching structure for its Quidditch teams and now he, Harry, could have the opportunity to make that happen. And not only that, he’d get to live at Hogwarts again. He nearly sighed with relief at the thought.  


It was only an interview, Harry told himself, as he pulled out a piece of parchment. Nothing more than that.

_ Dear Professor McGonagall,  _ he wrote.

_ I would be happy to interview for the position. Please let me know what day and time might work best. Thank you for thinking of me.  _

_ Harry James Potter _


	15. Chapter 15

Harry had been in Hogwarts only a handful of times since he was a student. He’d gone back for Ginny’s graduation, and had visited Hagrid once or twice, but otherwise, he had little need to go back to the school. But it was good to be back, he thought, taking the familiar route to Dumbledore’s old office, now McGonagall’s. He tried not to think too much about what it would be like if he got this job. He’d live here all the time. Hogwarts really would be his home.

He’d hemmed and hawed over whether or not to tell Ron and Hermione about the interview. He knew Ron would be frustrated and disappointed if he left the Aurors, but he also knew now that Ron and Hermione would support him through anything. In the end, he hadn’t told them because he’d grown more and more excited about the prospect of getting the job, and he didn’t want to have to endure the disappointment of telling them he was going for an interview just in case it didn’t pan out.

The one person he did want to tell, regardless of whether or not he got the job, was Malfoy, but that, he thought with a dull pang of sadness, wasn’t an option right now.

“Come in, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall called when he reached the doorway, and he entered the office, his palms sweaty. The room was similar to how it had been when Dumbledore occupied it, though it was rather more austere now, with significantly fewer odd looking instruments. The missing presence of Fawkes, too, left the room feeling rather bereft. But Professor McGonagall looked the same as ever, her hair pulled back into a severe and unforgiving bun at the back of her neck.

“Hello, Professor,” Harry said uncomfortably. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Have a seat, Potter.” She smiled warmly at him. “And do stop looking at me as though I’m going to take away house points. You’re here for an interview, not a detention.”

Harry laughed in spite of himself and sat down opposite her. “Thank you,” he said again.

“My pleasure,” she responded. “I know that I am the one who invited you here, Potter, but I must say, I’m rather surprised you’ve come. You’ve nearly finished with Auror training, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” he said. On the way there, he’d gone back and forth over how much to tell her. “But I don’t think that being an Auror is for me, after all, Professor. I--I don’t actually like fighting the Dark Arts. During the war, well, I think I only did it because I had too. I don’t want to do it forever.” He’d said it all in a rush, and once he finished, he looked up at her apologetically. She’d been so encouraging of him becoming an Auror when he was in school, and now he was about to throw it all away.

“I see.” McGonagall considered him for a long moment, and he wiped his palms nervously on his trousers. “All right, Potter,” she said at last. “I understand. Now, tell me why you’d like to be a flying instructor.”

Harry took a deep breath, and began to talk. He told McGonagall about flying with Teddy, how he’d bought the boy his first broom and helped him learn to ride. He told her how much he’d loved learning himself; how it had been the first thing, besides Hedwig, that made him feel like a wizard, and he told her how he’d like to help other children feel the same way. And finally, he told her about Dumbledore’s Army, and how, in his fifth year at Hogwarts, he’d laid awake at night thinking of ways to teach the spells in new ways, to make them easier for his fellow students to understand. 

“I know I might not be your most experienced candidate,” he said at last. “But I think I could be good at it, if you can give me a chance.”

McGonagall smiled at him. “I must say, Potter, I’ve never heard you speak of anything with more joy or passion than I’ve heard you speak about this.”

Harry smiled, embarrassed. “I thought I wanted to be an Auror,” he said. “But ever since I got your letter, all I can think about is how much more I want this.”

McGonagall tapped her quill on her desk, considering him carefully. Harry fought the urge to squirm like a first year under her gaze. “Well then, Potter,” she said after a moment. “If you want it, the job is yours.”

“Really?” Harry stared at her. “Just like that?”

“Yes, Potter,” she said with a smile. “As soon as I heard you were interested, I knew you’d be a perfect fit for the job. But I had to hear that you wanted it, and now I know that you do.”

“Wow,” Harry breathed. Ron was going to be furious, he thought. Hermione would think he was having some sort of quarter life crisis. And Malfoy--well, Harry might not get to know what he would think. But he had to stop making choices based on what he thought other people expected him to do.

“I’ll take it,” he said quickly, a thrill running down his spine for the first time in weeks.

“Then welcome back to Hogwarts, Potter,” McGonagall said with a smile. “Goodness, I suppose I must get used to saying Harry now. And you must call me Minerva. We are colleagues now.”

“I—I don’t think I can do that,” Harry said with a nervous laugh.

“Perhaps with time,” she said kindly. “Now, the details.” For the next half hour, they discussed the position: he’d move to Hogwarts in the summer—he could scarcely believe it—and begin teaching in the fall. Which meant he’d have a few weeks of freedom once he quit the Aurors. The first thing he was going to do, he thought, was  _ sleep.  _

By the time Harry stood up to leave, his face hurt from smiling, and he couldn’t wait to tell Ron and Hermione what had happened. 

“I’ll see you in a couple months, Professor,” he said once he’d finally gotten up to leave.

“Excellent,” McGonagall agreed. “Oh, and Harry? Do say hello to Mr. Malfoy for me. It was a pleasure to see him last month.”

Harry nearly dropped his case in surprise. “What do you—when—why do you think I’d see him?” he stammered. 

“Oh, I’d just assumed,” she said, looking rather oddly at him. “He was meeting with Poppy on business—potions, you know—and stopped by to tell me he thought you’d be an excellent fit for the position. He talked about you so much that I assumed you must be friends? But forgive me if that is not the case.”

Harry stared at her, his mouth suddenly feeling quite dry. “Malf—Draco—talked about  _ me _ ?”

“Yes,” she said, furrowing her brow. “He told me how glad he was that you’d reconnected as adults, and said that you’ve been a wonderful flying teacher for young Mr. Lupin. He clearly thinks quite highly of you, Potter—excuse me,  _ Harry _ .” She smiled warmly at him. “Do say hello, if you see him. I’ve never heard him speak so fondly of anyone. It was quite disarming.”

“Yes,” Harry said, his heart suddenly leaping in his chest. “I will. Thanks again, Professor McGonagall.” 

Harry took the stairs two by two on his way out of the castle. He’d Floo over to Ron and Hermione tomorrow, he thought as he made his way to the edge of Hogwarts' grounds. First, he needed to find Malfoy.


	16. Chapter 16

When Harry entered the pub, heart hammering madly, the first thing he smelled was the fresh, piney scent of Draco's cologne, as though he'd just walked through the door only moments before. He was probably imagining it, of course; Draco only ever wore a tasteful amount of cologne, and yet Harry just _knew_ that he would be there. After leaving Hogwarts, he'd first gone to Draco's flat, only to find it empty.

He’d stood on the stoop for a moment, feeling utterly disappointed, and nearly gave up the whole thing. What had he been thinking, dashing off to Malfoy’s home just because McGonagall had made a rather offhanded comment? Then he’d flipped again, and for a brief, mad moment, he'd considered waiting on the stoop the way Draco had done at Grimmauld place on the Wednesday before Christmas-over two months ago, now-but then he'd had a moment of clarity and Apparated to the pub.

He knew, or rather, he hoped very strongly, that that was where Draco would be. And he was right.

He'd been to the pub a few times in the past couple months and had never seen Draco there, but this time, his eyes found him immediately, blonde hair glinting under the dim lights at the bar. He wore his usual grey trousers and a dark blue Muggle shirt that looked far too good for this pub, but it was just right on Malfoy. He was so perfectly groomed and pressed that, aside from the Muggle shirt, he looked as though he might have just come from work.

But then again, he always looked like that unless Harry was around to muss him up.

For a moment, Harry stood in the doorway and watched Draco talk to a young Muggle man wearing a leather jacket. A muscle in Harry's jaw clenched when the man smiled and squeezed Draco's arm, but Draco shook his head, presumably refusing the offer of a drink, and the man moved on. Relief washed over Harry—somehow, it hadn’t even occurred to him that Draco might have moved on and might be with someone else—and with a surge of determination, he shook off his nerves and approached the bar.

"Draco," he said softly, placing a tentative hand on his arm. Startled, Draco swiveled toward him, a look of surprised pleasure crossing his face when he recognized Harry. Harry felt something inside himself crack open at the sight. It had been months, but Merlin, he still wanted Draco, everything to do with Draco. _I've never heard Mr. Malfoy speak so fondly of anyone,_ McGonagall had said. Harry took a deep breath. "Can I sit down?"

Draco nodded. "Yes, please," he said, not taking his eyes off Harry. Harry’s heart was beating rapidly in his chest, and his palms were sweaty, but he sat. He wondered if he would’ve had the nerve to come and find Draco like this if he’d gone home after his interview to think it through first. But it was too late to back out now, and Draco, incredibly, didn’t seem to mind that he was there. 

"How, er, how've you been?" Harry asked. He gestured to the bartender, a different one than usual, for a drink.

"Good. Better," Draco said, and his face flushed. "Better since Christmas, I mean."

Harry wondered what that meant. Better with his mother? Or better without Harry? He swallowed the questions. "And how's work?" he asked instead.

Draco raised an eyebrow at him. "Work?"

"Sorry," Harry said, flustered. "Trying to keep things, er, neutral," he said, and Draco laughed, throwing his head back to show his perfect white teeth. Harry wondered what Draco would do if he lurched forward and kissed him on the mouth like he used to do back when they were just hooking up. 

"Work's fine,” Draco said, smiling at him. “Always has been—that's why I like it. Brewing's the one thing that's always consistent."

Harry nodded. That, he could understand. "And how have you been?" Malfoy asked.

"Not bad," Harry replied. He wanted to kick himself for the awkwardness and the conversational barrier that he couldn't seem to break down. Malfoy—no, _Draco_ —looked just as maddeningly attractive and endearing as he had the last time Harry had seen him, and it was impossible to pretend that he wanted to catch up as though they were merely old friends. Maybe the problem was that they never had been old friends at all. They’d only had intensity, in one form or another, ever since they were kids. It was getting to be exhausting. 

"I've missed you," Harry blurted out. Draco stared at him. "Fuck," Harry muttered, shaking his head in embarrassment. "I didn't mean to say that."

To Harry's relief, Draco actually laughed. "I've missed you too, you git," he said affectionately, squeezing Harry's arm.

"Yeah?" Harry asked, his heart beating faster.

Draco nodded, his cheeks rather pink. "Look let’s just have it out, all right? I'm sorry about my letter. I wanted to have dinner with you, but I couldn't bear the thought of someone seeing us together, or it getting in the papers. No offense," he added. "But it's one thing to be here—" He gestured to the pub, to the Muggles surrounding them. "—but out there in the world it's another thing, isn't it?"

Harry nodded; to some extent, it was true for him as well. There was a reason that he and Malfoy had both decided to come to this Muggle pub in the first place.

"Mother and I have done everything we can to keep our names out of the papers," Draco went on. "And _you're_ in the paper all the time. Famous Harry Potter and his famous Auror training," he added with a wry smile.

"Not by choice," Harry said. And not for long, either he thought, at least not the bit about Auror training. And maybe the press would lose interest in the Boy Who Lived once he was no longer fighting the Dark opened his mouth to tell Draco about the interview with McGonagall, but decided against it for the time being. He wanted Draco to keep talking as long as possible. "How are things with your mother?" he asked carefully.

Draco shrugged. "It's better; perhaps you saw the article in the _Daily Prophet_?" Harry nodded, and Malfoy sighed. "She wasn't altogether displeased about that. It mentioned Father, and Azkaban, but didn't say anything _too_ awful. She apologized for kicking me out at Christmas, admitted that maybe she's got a bit of a blind spot where Father's concerned." He smiled grimly. "So, it's better than it was. But when you kissed me on Christmas—when the Weasleys saw—" His voice faltered, and Harry put a hand on his arm.

"I should've understood," he said quietly. "Before you sent your letter, I mean. I was just, well, caught up, I guess." Malfoy nodded. "That morning, when I saw you were about to leave, I realized that I don't just want to hook up with you, and I don't hate you either—I _like_ you—and then, you were just gone. And it's not about your...your hair or your body or your _robe—_ "

"You have some sort of fetish for that robe, don't you?" Draco interrupted, and while his cheeks were red, his grey eyes were actually _twinkling_. Harry gave Draco's foot a kick.

"Shut up," he said, looking away from Draco’s curious, laughing face. "The point is, I like you, Draco. As a—a _person_. And I think you like me, too." He took a deep breath. "McGonagall told me that it was you who put my name in for Hooch's job."

Draco's eyes widened. "Yeah? You saw her? Did you get it?"

"Yes! Just came from there, actually," Harry said excitedly, nearly forgetting his nerves as the words tumbled from his mouth. _I’m quitting the Aurors. I’m going back to Hogwarts!_ "Once I heard you were the one who told her, well, I came straight here to find you."

"Brilliant, Harry." A real, genuine smile spread across Draco's face, and Harry all but melted. "You'll be brilliant at it."

Harry grinned at him. "Thank you," he said. "And see? You do care."

Draco's face flushed yet again. "Maybe I do. But it's more complicated than that, isn't it?"

"It doesn't have to be."

On impulse, Harry reached out to take Draco's hand. When he didn't pull away, Harry squeezed it and kept talking. "Once McGonagall told me you'd mentioned me, I just _knew_ you'd be here again. And if you and me being, well, _together_ , is too much for you, I understand. But I want…" He trailed off, uncertain how much he should say.

"What do you want?" Draco said softly. He threaded his fingers carefully through Harry's, and Harry looked down at their joined hands, heat rising in his face.

"You, you idiot," Harry replied, squeezing Draco's hand again. "We can take it easy. Just you and me, like it was before...except more talking, this time. The rest of them can come around, or not." He hoped his voice was steadier than it felt. "I'll have a few months off, once I quit the Aurors, and then I'll be living at Hogwarts. We have all the time in the world, and we can have a fresh start."

As he spoke, he couldn't help but picture Draco visiting him at Hogwarts, the two of them spending cozy nights at the castle and taking daytime flights through the grounds. Teddy could visit, too, and maybe eventually they could have quiet dinners together in Hogsmeade...He blinked and looked back at Draco, who was running his finger along the top of his glass, his brow furrowed.

"And the press?" Draco asked Harry. "And the, er, non-Weasleys?"

"Not till we're ready," Harry promised. "If ever. Same goes for your mother, and anyone else. It can be whatever you want it to be," he added. "I'm hoping for a quieter life, too. It’s one of the reasons why I took the job."

"Okay," Draco whispered at last. "Yes."

And then, incredibly, he leaned forward and kissed Harry on the mouth, the scent of his cologne flooding Harry's nostrils, the softness of his cheek against Harry's bringing him right back to how he'd felt at Christmastime. Harry put his hand on Draco's knee and leaned forward, kissing him back enthusiastically, right there at the bar where it had all began. He wasn't sure how long they sat like that, oblivious to anything going on around them, until at last, a voice broke through the haze.

"Hey, you two going to order another drink, or what?" Harry looked up to see their regular bartender looking down at them. "Oh, it's you two." He raised an eyebrow at Harry. "So it's snoggjng tonight? Not fighting?"

"The night is young," Draco said airily, and Harry laughed. Merlin, he’d missed Draco.

"Give us a minute," he told the bartender, and turned back to Draco. "It's been all I can do not to kiss you this entire time," Harry admitted, his face warm. "Can we go back to your place?"

Draco grinned at him. "Why start restraining ourselves now?" He signaled to the bartender. "We'll take the check."

* * *

At Draco's, everything was the same, and yet at the same time, everything was different. Usually, they Apparated directly to the bedroom, pulling at one another's clothes and falling tipsily into the bed without saying a word. This time, Draco brought them to the kitchen. He poured them each a glass of wine, presumably something expensive, not that Harry could tell, allowing his hands to brush casually against the small of Harry's back as he moved carefully around the room.

Usually, they groaned, gasped, and begged, but never spoke; this time they stood in the kitchen as Draco chatted amiably and easily about his job, his friends, his home. Harry told Draco about his interview with McGonagall, and how supportive Ron and Hermione had been after Christmas.

"Hermione's the one who told me to write to you that second time," he admitted.

"She did?" Malfoy asked in surprise, refilling Harry's wine. "Hard to believe."

Harry shrugged. "They liked you at Christmas. And they want me to be happy." He felt overwhelmed with gratitude as he said it—for his friends, for his new job, for Draco. "Why didn't we ever do this before?" he asked, gesturing between them. 

"I don't know," Draco admitted. "I was a bit angry with you still, I suppose. Hogwarts wasn't that long ago. Potter Stinks, and all that," he said sheepishly, and Harry smiled. "And _then_ I was angry about how much I wanted you. And then I saw you at the Weasley's and it turned out that you were, well, nice." Draco smiled at Harry, and Harry's heart fluttered. "It's all been all very confusing."

Harry nodded, and took Draco into his arms, taking a deep breath as he felt the slim, straight lines of Draco’s body against him. He closed his eyes and thought about Draco’s soft white sheets. It had been a very, very long day. "We, er, don't have to pretend this is our first date, do we?"

"Merlin, no," said Draco, brushing a kiss across Harry's lips. "Come on." He pulled Harry back to the bedroom, and again, Harry was struck by how things could be so similar, yet so different all at the same time. In the bedroom, tired though he was, he wasted no time in peeling Draco's shirt off, marveling in the smoothness of his skin, running a finger down his jawline, pulling him in for a rough kiss. He wanted to touch Draco absolutely everywhere.

"You're killing me, Harry," Draco groaned as Harry straddled his waist, kissing his face and his neck. "As good as you look in those dress robes, please take them off. I haven't seen you naked in _months_ , and it's all I've been thinking about."

"Yeah?" Harry asked, grinning.

" _Yes_ ," Draco hissed impatiently, sliding his hands up under Harry's shirt, lifting it carefully over his head. "Merlin, Harry," Draco breathed. "You're bloody gorgeous, you know that?"

Harry blushed and bent down to bury his face in the crook of Draco's neck, their bare chests and the hard lengths of their bodies pressed shamelessly against each other. Harry wanted to touch Draco everywhere, to run his fingers through his hair, to kiss his pink mouth, to stroke his pale white thighs until he moaned. Part of him had been worried that the only thing that made the physical aspect of their relationship work had been the old rivalry, the hatred, and whatever made everything feel so forbidden. But things were even better without all the old baggage. Harry revelled in how well he knew Draco's body, what he liked, what he wanted, and how he would respond to every touch.

"Please, Draco, I want you," he gasped at last, looking down at Draco's flushed and needy body below him. Draco nodded desperately, reaching for Harry in return. For the first time in all the times they'd been together, Harry met Draco's eyes as their bodies came together, grasping at one another until they collapsed, sated and exhausted, onto the bed.

In the morning, Harry woke to Draco slipping an arm around his waist, entwining their legs together as he pulled Harry close. It was early yet, and the morning's first sunlight was only beginning to stream through the windows. Draco pressed his lips against Harry's neck, and Harry sighed contentedly.

"Not kicking me out, then?" he murmured sleepily.

He could feel Draco's smile on the back of his neck. "Not a chance," Draco replied. "You can stay as long as you'd like."


	17. Chapter 17

**Epilogue: Ten Months Later**

"Just one night, right?" Draco asked as they walked up the front steps of the Burrow, hand in hand.

"One night," Harry promised. "We'll leave tomorrow after lunch. And I promise you, it won't be as bad as last year."

"Oh, I don't know," Draco said, squeezing Harry's hand. "Last year wasn't all that bad, all things considered." He cringed as Mrs. Weasley flung open the door and waved enthusiastically at them. "Here we go," he muttered ominously, and Harry grinned.

"Harry! Draco!" Molly called, beckoning them inside. "You're here just in time for dinner. How was the trip from Hogwarts?"

"Not bad," said Harry, grinning as she kissed Draco on the cheek and exclaimed over last year's bright green Weasley scarf. "Came from Draco's flat in Hogsmeade, actually—easier to Apparate from there than Hogwarts."

"Wonderful, wonderful," she said, beaming at them. "How nice that Draco can be so close to Hogwarts." It was nice, Harry thought, one of the nicest things that had happened all year. Draco had taken a flat in Hogsmeade in the fall, ostensibly to set up his own potions lab, but Harry suspected it was primarily to be closer to him. With Draco in Hogsmeade, it was easy to meet up at the Three Broomsticks for a pint, or for Draco to walk over to the castle in the evenings to spend time with Harry once the students were all in bed.

In the months between quitting Auror training and beginning at Hogwarts, Harry had been nervous that he'd made the wrong decision, but all his doubts vanished as soon as he settled in. He delighted in teaching the younger students to fly, and now that he was spending the bulk of his time coaching the house Quidditch teams, he wondered how he'd ever done anything else. Not only that, now that he was no longer immersed in chasing Dark wizards and studying the Dark Arts, he was finally sleeping through the night. It was hard to believe how many things had changed in the past year, and just about all of them were good.

"Well, it's wonderful to see you both," Molly said, hugging Harry enthusiastically. "We'll have a house full like usual, of course. Even more this year than last. Angelina's here this year, and Charlie's coming with his boyfriend tomorrow, though just for the day."

"I heard he was seeing someone," Harry said, finding Draco's hand and giving it a squeeze. "It's wonderful that they can make it."

"Is that Harry and Draco I hear?" a voice called from the hallway. Molly beamed at Harry as the kitchen door opened and a flurry of additional Weasleys tumbled in. Draco took a step back as Harry found himself being hugged by Ginny and a very pregnant Hermione, and clapped on the back by Ron. George slipped in behind them, giving Harry a wave. He glanced somewhat uncomfortably at Malfoy, but didn't say anything. Harry supposed this was somewhat of an improvement over last year, at least.

"We were just talking about you two," Ginny told Harry and Draco. "Quidditch tomorrow morning? Same teams as last year."

"I don't know," Harry said, glancing at Draco. "We probably won't be staying long tomorrow. We're having dinner with Narcissa in the evening."

"We should have time for a game in the morning," Draco said, squeezing his hand. "We need a rematch after last year."

"Brilliant." Ginny grinned at them. "Ron and Hermione have to leave tomorrow too. Ron's got to work now that he's a junior Auror and very important."

"I _am_ very important, thank you very much." Ron turned to Harry and Draco, hand on his hip. "And don't think for one instant that you'll be able to beat us this year just 'cause Harry's coaching Quidditch at Hogwarts now. We've still got Ginny. And me and George," he added as an afterthought.

"We'll see," Draco told him. "But speaking of Quidditch, you should come to a game at Hogwarts sometime. Hufflepuff _flattened_ Gryffindor in the last match." Harry cringed, and Draco grinned. "It was a bloodbath."

Ron rounded on Harry. "Is that true?" he demanded. "You're the flying teacher! Can't you do something about it?"

Harry glared at Draco. "I'm a teacher now, I can't play favorites," he protested as Ron shook his head with dismay. "Hufflepuff's just better. Gryffindor's got a good Keeper, but their Seeker can't catch worth a—"

He was interrupted by a rush of cold air as the front door opened and a small blue-haired boy burst into the crowd. "Merry Christmas!" Teddy shouted. "Are Harry and Draco here yet?"

"We are!" Harry shouted back, picking Teddy up and whirling him around. "Merry Christmas, Ted,"

"I'm too big for that now," Teddy told him, wiggling to put down. "I'm _seven_."

"You're enormous," Draco told him. "At least a head taller than when I saw you last month."

"Very funny," Teddy announced. "Did Harry tell you I'm coming to Hogwarts after Christmas? For a whole week!"

"He did tell me," Draco said. "And you'll spend some time with me in Hogsmeade when he's busy working."

"Really?" Teddy clapped his hands with excitement. "I'll bring my broom and everything!"

"Come to the shop," George said suddenly, speaking for the first time since Harry and Draco had arrived. The room fell silent as everyone turned to look at him. His ears turned red, but he kept looking at Draco. "When you've got Ted in Hogsmeade. He can test out the newest batch of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes—don't look at me like that, Andromeda, they're perfectly safe these days."

"Really?" Draco said in surprise, and George nodded. "That would be great, George," he said gratefully. "Really."

They exchanged a brief, awkward smile before Molly burst back in to usher them all into the other room. Harry hung back for a moment, sliding an arm around Draco's waist.

"Sounds like George might be coming around after all," he said, watching Teddy take George's hand and pull him in to dinner, chatting rapidly about the joke shop and all the things he planned to buy.

"Yeah, maybe," Draco replied, looking pleased. He closed his eyes for a moment and leaned his head against Harry's. "Merlin, I'm exhausted already, and we've only just arrived. Think we have time to sneak up to our room before we eat?"

Harry laughed, thinking of the last time they'd been in the little room with the twin beds. "After dessert," he promised.

They followed the others in to the dining room, and as Harry took his seat between Draco and Teddy, his closest family and friends gathered around him at the table, he felt his heart soar with happiness and gratitude. Finally, all was well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That brings us to the end! Thank you so much for reading and commenting.


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